Lesson Six

Lesson Six – Foreshadowing

Take One



         I stood at the top of the stairs and looked down through the stained glass window at the landing.  The huge laurel beyond it was dying.  It was a modest bush when we moved into the house—into this—our dream house.  It grew and flourished. 

Always dressed in deep green, glossy leaves, it kept me sane during all those gray winters.  The first harbinger of spring, it burst with porcelain pink blossoms, telling me cold was over—at least for another year.  It was a sanctuary, where the finches and wrens raised their little ones.  And now, it was dying.

I walked through the second floor rooms, checking that windows were closed and lights were off.  Then I walked down the stairs to the landing.  I stared through the colored panes, beyond the wilting leaves and saw the landscape tinted blue.

I continued down the stairs, through the foyer.  Instead of a twelve foot Christmas tree, with presents beneath piled high, it was filled with stacks of boxes—all taped shut and neatly labeled.  Stripped of their lace curtains, the French doors to the living room seemed alien—wrong.

It was the thirtieth of June, in the nineties outside and I was shivering.  There was no point in staying.  And yet…

My colonial blue kitchen—that me made me so happy—was cold and dark.  It was painted a buttery yellow when we moved in.  It seemed warmer then.  I opened one of the cabinets and remembered putting down the so so seventies contact paper down on that first morning.  They were empty and those bright flowers now pale and faded from years of wear. 

I went to the bathroom again.  I already used the other two bathrooms.  But, I had a long drive ahead of me.

It was time to go.  Instead, I sat at the dining table, remembering holidays and birthdays and happiness.  I needed to go.  Now.  But I didn't.

I was little more than a bride when we moved to Seymour.  I expected to have my babies here.  But no babies came.  I expected to grow old here.  Instead, I grew weary.

I needed to go.  The car was packed.  It was even pointed out.  I went out the back door and made sure it was locked.  There was nothing more to do—no other reason to delay.  All I needed to do was drive away. 

I climbed in the car, fastened the seatbelt and stuck the key in the ignition.  This was the right thing to do—the only thing to do.  But, instead of starting the engine, I just sat, staring out, unseeing, and sobbing.