Saturday's Storyteller: "I've been doing housework all day."
by Belinda Roddie
I've been doing housework all day - scrubbing, soaking, sweeping every bit of residue that remained of you - when she walks in through the front door without so much as knocking. She has curly brown hair, big eyes belonging more to a doe than to a human, and yet a smile that peaks like a glorious mountain during sunrise. She sits at the dining room table as I work, scouring every plate and bowl and glass we got as our wedding presents, and asks if she'd like me to help.
"It's not your mess."
She laughs then, then exhales and shakes her head as if warding away the impending mosquitos of summer. Her east coast accent is so much lighter now, yet I'll always recognize its timbre. It's the rhythm of a voice I've been accused of maintaining, despite my Californian roots - all six generations of it. And she stands up and removes the sponge from my grimy hands.
"Take a break. You deserve it."
She offers me a glass of wine in a café where a flutist plays and sings jazz. The space will be air conditioned, and it will be filled with paintinhs. None of yours, but of strangers whom I've never been in love with. All oil on canvas and stiff scenery and forests and woods and valleys too far away to be considered my home. But the Riesling will be good. The bubbly, too. Through the haze of intoxication, I'll want to kiss her. But I'll hold back.
Because she's not you. And she'll never be you. And she's not here, anyway. She's nestled along a river I've never visited, never dipped my toes, never plunged my soul into, so many feet deep. She won't ever come here. She's in love with someone else. And she doesn't remember my name. But you do.
And you're here. And you've never left. And you never will leave. Golden girl, laughing at my ridiculous jokes, smiling at my football fumbles. You kiss my flaws as if they were extra features in my stature, in my bulk. You hold both the rough and soft parts of me, and no one else can appreciate these elements as much as you can. And thank God for that.
And as much as I hate to admit that I'm a lazy bum - though you'd argue that it's due to my strenuous schedule - you're usually doing the housework.
But hey - at least I washed the dishes recently.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
I've been doing housework all day - scrubbing, soaking, sweeping every bit of residue that remained of you - when she walks in through the front door without so much as knocking. She has curly brown hair, big eyes belonging more to a doe than to a human, and yet a smile that peaks like a glorious mountain during sunrise. She sits at the dining room table as I work, scouring every plate and bowl and glass we got as our wedding presents, and asks if she'd like me to help.
"It's not your mess."
She laughs then, then exhales and shakes her head as if warding away the impending mosquitos of summer. Her east coast accent is so much lighter now, yet I'll always recognize its timbre. It's the rhythm of a voice I've been accused of maintaining, despite my Californian roots - all six generations of it. And she stands up and removes the sponge from my grimy hands.
"Take a break. You deserve it."
She offers me a glass of wine in a café where a flutist plays and sings jazz. The space will be air conditioned, and it will be filled with paintinhs. None of yours, but of strangers whom I've never been in love with. All oil on canvas and stiff scenery and forests and woods and valleys too far away to be considered my home. But the Riesling will be good. The bubbly, too. Through the haze of intoxication, I'll want to kiss her. But I'll hold back.
Because she's not you. And she'll never be you. And she's not here, anyway. She's nestled along a river I've never visited, never dipped my toes, never plunged my soul into, so many feet deep. She won't ever come here. She's in love with someone else. And she doesn't remember my name. But you do.
And you're here. And you've never left. And you never will leave. Golden girl, laughing at my ridiculous jokes, smiling at my football fumbles. You kiss my flaws as if they were extra features in my stature, in my bulk. You hold both the rough and soft parts of me, and no one else can appreciate these elements as much as you can. And thank God for that.
And as much as I hate to admit that I'm a lazy bum - though you'd argue that it's due to my strenuous schedule - you're usually doing the housework.
But hey - at least I washed the dishes recently.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
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