Moving. Moving into a new house. Climbing unfamiliar stairs with heavy boxes of books and the occasional drum case. Looking down between unsteady M.S. feet breath catching in my throat. Did I see something there? Nah. My overactive imagination runs away with me. Hot and humid upstairs. Windows closed because it might rain. Sweat stings my eyes.
Glow in my new office is strange. Glass down low on the wall near the floor allows the sun to come in from an odd angle. Dramatically slanted ceiling reflects the rays back down against the hard wood floor. Brown blur shoots across one small window stopping in the next. I don’t want to look. I look. The bird stares at his new neighbor blinking small black eyes. It flies away to find food for the babies in her nest on the tree across the yard.
I’m frightened, thrilled and sad all at the same time. I struggle against the images running through my mind of distorted rodents, mysterious keyholes and a garden covered in blueprints. Why do I do this to myself? I guess the mind runs in the directions it chooses no matter the consequence of thought.
I should write a cheeky love story next.
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