“I wish you had called first. This is too much of an inconvenience Ben”
“I’m sorry. It couldn’t wait. Here’s what i just found out.” He retrieves a red purse from his back pocket and hands it over to her. She stares at it, open mouthed and eyed, He thrusts it a little further into her vision before she is shaken out of her trance.
Almost incoherently, she speaks “its hers. She really is alive. I thought she was…” he cuts right in before she can finish
“Dead? She’s not Martha. I don’t know where she is, but i’ll try to find out. After all, she’s my sister too.” He turns from the threshold and hurries towards his red truck as it begins to rain. She gathers herself in the the instant, closes the door, and like a ghost, walks to the orange box in the hollow hall way where the walls are adorned with the finest art. The lights go out. Though the molten eye of the storm coming feeds the hall way with darkened aqua light.
“My memories. Our memories Valerie. My little Vah.” She takes the top off, places it on the side of the medium sized box and closes her eyes as she deeps her hand into it. Her fingers trail the timber cover of different books. Some heavy, some light. She pulls out a grey jotter, then opens her eyes to inspect it closely. Lightening strikes. Thunder roars. The phone rings. But she is oblivious as she begins to read Valerie’s words, bathed in the light of the moon.

“We’ll play in the morning sun because of all the uncertainty
We’ll wake in a different mould because we do not understand time or the trick of it.
We’ll stay as children because we are boundless with energy and a careless hunger for life. We’ll live and grow dearest sister

No matter how far apart we might be
I promise you’ll always find me

I’m the broken one
Have a little faith”

Vah. 12

The waterfalls that persist down her full cheeks wet her night dress together with the perspiration that her body oozes. Jotter in hand, Shaking, she replaces the box cover and walks in the direction of her bedroom. The hallway echoes with the tone of dialing telephone keypads. Her voice is a whisper as she speaks to a long lost lover who is not on the other side to actually listen. She ends the call and reads the little poem again.

Fade Out

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s