Grievous - Part 9

A pair of sneakers sent me spiraling into darkness. I was tying my shoes and briefly wondered if I would need boots at the cottage this time of year. I paused, tangled in ties, and collapsed on the hardwood entry floor. Each year of pain then took its turn wrenching my body and flooding my face. I curled fisted fingers into my untidy hair and resisted the urge to succumb. Determined, I breathed and tugged, tightly knotting laces, willing myself to rise and walk.

I slogged through downtown rain blowing sideways between sunbursts, taunting my tears. As I passed a thrift shop window, the figure of a woman with familiar posture caught my attention over a display of colored glass trinkets. She disappeared as beams split the clouds, glinting off a ruby goblet and stinging my eyes.

I entered the store and assumed the woman’s pose before the display, sunken eyes and lifeless hair, defeated shoulders in a white flag parka. I reached for the dull, garnet cup, tracing a happy face in the thick dust with my wet finger. I held it protectively against my chest and walked through the store, gathering at random. When I reached the counter, I released the items in my new collection, one at a time from fingers, wrists and under-arms: a 1960’s romance novel, a plaid scarf, a macramé handbag, a small painting of a rooster.

When I returned home, I removed the items from the recycled pet store bag and lined them up on my coffee table. Leaning back in my chair, I put my feet on the table, and heaved a great sigh. I stayed there, open, exposed, wet hair soaking my shirt and the chair, and waited for my mind to empty. In that moment, I knew. I had to call Celeste.