Today, a deep dark shadow crept over the Earth. I sit up in bed, thinking about why I get up before the sun comes out only to realize that it is noon. George once told me that I should take these kinds of days off, just to think a bit and muddle my thoughts down on paper, but there are always things to be done. Besides, George isn't here, and I am, with all my responsibilities, so I get up out of bed anyway and get to work.
Building the house has taken the better part of the last year. More recently, things have gone more slowly because I must get the wood from farther and farther away, since there isn't any more nearby for miles. When there were still trees around, George would tell me to not cut them down because they were beautiful, that I would miss them when they were all gone, for I would have nothing to look at. I will look at the sky, I would tell him, as I chopped away. Today the sky is dark.
I stand at the doorway and look out onto a landscape covered by a vague dimness. Behind me, the house stands, nearly complete, the roof pointed up towards the inky black above. I wonder what to do.
I sit down on the threshold and think about what George said, about muddling up thoughts and writing things. Who would read what I write? I look to my right as if expecting somebody to be standing there waiting to read my writing. There is nothing there, just a sooty darkness where the only light comes from the distant fires that are always burning. I try to imagine an arbitrary person to talk to, but I can only see George, who says to me, "Maybe you should go back inside".
Inside, I sit back down on my bed and wonder what I am supposed to do. I wonder why I am even building this house. George isn't here anymore. After we finished the kitchen George was angry that there was nowhere to get running water for the sink. We argued over the kitchen sink until he finally left out the door we built saying that I was stubborn and unable to move on. Nobody was coming back, he had to find them. After that, I built the house alone. George would come back, eventually.
On the desk there is a stack of paper that George scrounged up, with a pencil, too. He brought it to me one day, saying, "You have such great ideas. I think you should be a writer." I go now, to sit at the desk, barely able to see the blank page. I pick up the pencil and start to think.
Many ideas flood into my head, thoughts that I have not had for a long time, like apple pie or singing karaoke. I think about getting Christmas gifts and strolling down the beach on a warm day. For the first time in a long time, I think about her, all those years ago, when things weren't like they are now.
As I am ready to put the pencil onto the page, I see a light flickering through the window. I stand up and walk to the door. It is George, it must be George. I take three steps out of the door before realizing that it is not the light of George's lantern. The sun is rising. I look down at my watch, realizing that it still reads noon, or perhaps midnight. The battery must be dead. The pencil slips from my hand into the dirt. There is much work to be done today. I have almost finished the house.
Monday, January 24, 2011
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