Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 50.0: March 31st, 2009
Glass Windows
by Belinda Roddie
She watched the world revolve without her, outside her apartment window. She dreamed of partaking in its wonders, its colors and its sounds, its scents and its flavors. She thought about going back to San Francisco; she liked the fog, heavy and gray over the horizon of the bay. A nipping cold, but a good cold, a calming cold.
I’m not in San Francisco. I’m in a shitty apartment overlooking Garden Grove. All I have is the rattling breaths of a worn out air conditioner to keep me company. That and the breeze, nothing but whimpers in the warm spring air. It’s not a good kind of warm. It’s too burdensome on my shoulders. I place my hand against the windowpane and let my fingerprints turn white against the glass.
It had been six months since she had been up north. Down here, she had still tried to dabble in the assumed culture. She was a part of that world that she now watched spin by like a crazy, glowing top; a blur of lights and sirens, reds and blues and greens. She watched it all go by, outside her apartment window. She thought of catching up with it, in a car, maybe a train, if it were fast enough.
I don’t think I’ve been on a train for years. There was one time I was on a train to
Colorado, and the twists and turns always caught me off guard. It was like being on a roller coaster, and if I hadn’t held on, I would’ve been tossed about like a doll as the train ignited the railroad tracks beneath it with sparks. I remember my mother telling me to stay seated, that if I didn’t hold on tight, I’d lose my balance. How appropriate that I’ve never gone that fast again. My breath is fogging up the glass. I don’t move away from it.
How long had it been since she last talked to him? He had been waiting for her at an airport one day, a farm boy from Maryland’s Eastern shore. She had embraced him and kissed him on his shaved head, while he talked about how he liked the fog in San Francisco. Before he got into his uniform and put on a plane that was sent abroad. He had waved to her the whole time, shouting his goodbyes before they were swallowed up by the bellow of the engines. He was far from home now, beyond her apartment window.
I haven’t seen him since. He still returns my letters, but they get shorter every day. He still won’t be back home until December. Just in time for Christmas, a nice quiet one if I’m lucky. I want to be up north then, away from the pink sunsets and the brown horizons where I can’t see any stars. But for now, alone, staring at everything. It’s the only way I can cope, being an observer, pressed against the glass that turns to ice but never thaws against my palms.
She was tempted to leave months ago, but she had studies to look to. Her parents expected big things from her, down where Hollywood and Disneyland and all the hot spots were tucked into neat little corners of the region. Packaged and tied up with neat bows, waiting for her. It was too big for her. She expected nothing that oversized her own appetite happening to her. Not when all she wanted was to stand still and take it all in.
I still have the picture of him and me where we stood by Pier 39, holding hands, our laughs still swelling in that simple freeze frame. I want to get the world in one snapshot; maybe I can seal it behind this window’s glass. But it won’t stop for me.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since March 31st, 2009.
by Belinda Roddie
She watched the world revolve without her, outside her apartment window. She dreamed of partaking in its wonders, its colors and its sounds, its scents and its flavors. She thought about going back to San Francisco; she liked the fog, heavy and gray over the horizon of the bay. A nipping cold, but a good cold, a calming cold.
I’m not in San Francisco. I’m in a shitty apartment overlooking Garden Grove. All I have is the rattling breaths of a worn out air conditioner to keep me company. That and the breeze, nothing but whimpers in the warm spring air. It’s not a good kind of warm. It’s too burdensome on my shoulders. I place my hand against the windowpane and let my fingerprints turn white against the glass.
It had been six months since she had been up north. Down here, she had still tried to dabble in the assumed culture. She was a part of that world that she now watched spin by like a crazy, glowing top; a blur of lights and sirens, reds and blues and greens. She watched it all go by, outside her apartment window. She thought of catching up with it, in a car, maybe a train, if it were fast enough.
I don’t think I’ve been on a train for years. There was one time I was on a train to
Colorado, and the twists and turns always caught me off guard. It was like being on a roller coaster, and if I hadn’t held on, I would’ve been tossed about like a doll as the train ignited the railroad tracks beneath it with sparks. I remember my mother telling me to stay seated, that if I didn’t hold on tight, I’d lose my balance. How appropriate that I’ve never gone that fast again. My breath is fogging up the glass. I don’t move away from it.
How long had it been since she last talked to him? He had been waiting for her at an airport one day, a farm boy from Maryland’s Eastern shore. She had embraced him and kissed him on his shaved head, while he talked about how he liked the fog in San Francisco. Before he got into his uniform and put on a plane that was sent abroad. He had waved to her the whole time, shouting his goodbyes before they were swallowed up by the bellow of the engines. He was far from home now, beyond her apartment window.
I haven’t seen him since. He still returns my letters, but they get shorter every day. He still won’t be back home until December. Just in time for Christmas, a nice quiet one if I’m lucky. I want to be up north then, away from the pink sunsets and the brown horizons where I can’t see any stars. But for now, alone, staring at everything. It’s the only way I can cope, being an observer, pressed against the glass that turns to ice but never thaws against my palms.
She was tempted to leave months ago, but she had studies to look to. Her parents expected big things from her, down where Hollywood and Disneyland and all the hot spots were tucked into neat little corners of the region. Packaged and tied up with neat bows, waiting for her. It was too big for her. She expected nothing that oversized her own appetite happening to her. Not when all she wanted was to stand still and take it all in.
I still have the picture of him and me where we stood by Pier 39, holding hands, our laughs still swelling in that simple freeze frame. I want to get the world in one snapshot; maybe I can seal it behind this window’s glass. But it won’t stop for me.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since March 31st, 2009.
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