Floating

She breathes deeply as she watches and waves. A simple smile both real and guileless sweeps across her face as she sees the last of the cherubic heads bob out of view. Retreating pleasurably into the depths of a conscious serenity is her luxury. And with a growing sense of liberty she uncoils slowly and releases her breath.

Phone clatter noisily to life.

Phone clatter noisily to life.

Muddle of a hectic breakfast.

Muddle of a hectic breakfast.

The suburban hum whispers its nuanced welcome as she tilts her head to absorb the saturated blue of an undisturbed sky. A rhythm murmuring with lilt and cadence exists as life merrily traverses along its fated trajectory. She turns toward the house with no gratuitous sentiment. Hers is a response innocent but grateful.

Dazzling red polish.

Dazzling red polish.

Climbing the stairs to the door she hears the phone clatter noisily to life. A telemarketer most likely as she acknowledges the unknown number. This satisfies and an incongruous relief seeps through her as she lets it ring out.

Though unmade beds beckon and the muddle of a hectic breakfast lays abandoned, she taps the kettle from its reverie and listens to its ascending hiss. The teabag only moments before inert releases its potential and fills the void with a lingering calm. She sips contentedly.

Petunias- pert, lively and beautiful.

Petunias- pert, lively and beautiful.

A mind meandering from task to task mapping a day filled with conventional expectations makes her foolhardy and she reaches for her daughters dazzling red polish applying it liberally to toenails that cower under the bombardment. But she swiftly ignores her absurd unease instead focusing on her vase of petunias pert, lively and beautiful unaware of their all too short date.

Tick, tick, tick of the clock.

Tick, tick, tick of the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Closing her eyes she rubs at her temples listening to the tick, tick, tick of the clock. Time is palpable. And this is hers if only for a moment. She focuses on the regularity of pulse, of breath. In out. In out. Floating…

One thought on “Floating

  1. Pingback: Floating | Newcastle's Casual Reviewer of Art

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