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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 3 "Mornings" (part 1)

posted 10/14/2008 10:45:18 PM |
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Waking up in the mornings is always the hardest. First opening your eyes and looking over to the other side of the bed, half expecting someone to be there, then the memories flood back to you. It takes everything in you to swallow the lump in your throat and know that you must go on with yet another day. It takes the deepest of fortitude to force you to believe that, hard as it might seem, you will get over this one day and be truly happy again. It's been a year since that day, yet every day seems like a year, and even still, that year seems like a day. With memories so fresh, so painful, you would think that they were literally seared in your mind, branded forever on a body that wanted to forget but a heart that would allow no such thing. You close your eyes and drift back in time; back to a place of peace and painless ecstasy. A place where everything is normal and where you enjoyed the now and gave not a care of the future…
She was saying something about how her new co-worker didn't have a clue. You didn't have a clue what she was getting at, but it didn't matter. Just the sound of her voice made you pleased. "Are you listening to me?" You smile and nod, but know that once again, you had spaced out and she knew it. "Well anyways, I was taking…" And off she went again. You gazed into those green eyes, the ones that had mesmerized you with such forcefulness the first time you saw her. It always felt like she could see deeper into your soul than anyone else could; as if maybe she could see your past, future, and every secret you had kept. Every time you looked at them, they caught you in an unconscious spell and the world would slowly melt away until it was just the two of you…
The alarm is buzzing again, curtly snapping you back to the present, the task at hand. You swing your feet out of bed and into slippers. It seems a little colder than usual, maybe the fire went out. As you walk down the hall towards the stairs, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The dark circles and disheveled hair belie the full night's sleep you just had. It seems that lately no matter how much sleep you get, you're still in a fog the next morning. Downstairs, a quick touch to the stove tells you that the fire has long since died. You reach for the wood box but remember that you used the last of it yesterday and were supposed to chop more last night. Shuffling back up the stairs you hear her voice, "Honey, did you get more wood last night? How many times…"
You've heard this one before… Numerous times. To her, it seemed like an easy thing to remember. Burn the wood, chop more. To you it seemed easy to forget. Chop wood? Nah, do it later. You walked into the bathroom and cranked the shower to hot. Oh well, at least you both had to work this morning so it wasn't too big of a deal. Well for you at least. "I forgot, I'm sorry," you whisper. "What if it was something more important?" What if the sky was green? She was standing behind you brushing her teeth as you used the foggy mirror to shave. You could barely comprehend what she was saying and that made the situation a bit humorous. She saw your smirk and moved towards the sink to spit but you lobbed a handful of shaving cream over your shoulder and onto her cheek. When she shrieked, you turned around to face her…Your reaching arms grab thin air. Confused for a minute you turn back to the condensation-covered mirror only to see her again smiling at you. Bending over slowly, you wash your face and grab the towel off the wall behind you. Looking down at the towel, you realize it has a handful of shaving cream on it. You close your eyes for a minute, letting the world rush back before you look at yourself in the mirror again. You clean the towel off and step into the shower...
The drive to work isn't far, but it's snowing today and you leave a bit early so that you have time to drive slowly. It seems that the worse accidents could have usually been avoided had the drivers taken the time to slow down even a little bit. As you pull into the station, you hope that there aren't many calls this morning but you know better than to wish for none at all. Christmas time was the worse fire season in the area with a majority coming from plain carelessness. Lit tobacco cherries falling into couches, candles next to curtains, the usual Christmas light electrical shorts, you name it. It happened every year regardless of how many awareness leaflets, posters, and commercials the department had put out. After a quick check on your gear, you walk upstairs to the kitchen to grab some coffee. For once, there was actually enough left for a cup, but that still didn't keep you from having to make a fresh pot as you did every morning. Mumbling to yourself, you toss the old filter and grab the can of coffee...

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Oct 14 @ 10:47PM  
Cordog! Good to see you're still kickin man! I'ma hand over a green cookie for your writing ability as well.. but I'm just glad you are still among the livin.

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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 3 "Mornings" (part 1)