Naration

[Susan Matthews]

((Yes, I tend to narate my own life.))

There she was, lying on the floor in a heap. Not quite asleep but, but not quite awake, Casey was still fully aware of everything around her. Without opening her eyes, she was acutely aware of exactly where everything was in her room. The presence of the pile of dirty clothes next to her arm lingered, as did the clean pile on the other side, by her head.

The light in her room was on, but it was dark in the windows. The cold from the outside seemed to seep in from the windows and from under the closed door leading to the hallway.

Her eyes opened suddenly at the change in the music coming from an outplaying mp3 in the corner of the room. An upbeat tune filled the air and sent reverberations through Casey’s head. Closing her eyes again, she slowly rose from her heap. Head-pounding, she reached blindly in the direction from which the loud base pounded. Although her eyes were now open, everything had a blurred edge.

She furiously jammed the “skip” button until a familiarly quiet song filled the air. After blinking profusely, the blurred appearance still remained. Groaning inwardly and regretting the dismissal of glasses long ago, Casey rubbed her eyes.

Exhausted, but not sleepy, Casey’s eyes fell on the two piles of clothing by her. The dirty needed to be sorted and washed. The clean needed to be sorted and hung up. Blinking extra long, her brain, in time with the music, promptly forgot everything. Though she was only blinking, her eyes would not open again.

She returned to her heap on the floor. The dirty pile of clothing just brushed her arm and her head softly touched the floor next to the clean pile as she closed her eyes. The calm mixture of piano and guitar flowed over her, contentment oozing from her pores.

There she lay, in a heap on the floor, only to repeat the cycle again with the start of a new song.

[Susan Matthews]

((And another occasion . . .))

She closes her eyes, but not for too long. Closed eyes tend to hinder the driving process, it seems. With open eyes, swirling leaves can be seen along the sides of the road as the cars a head have whizzed past and hers is now. The heat is pumping out of the little vents next to the steering wheel like it’s no body’s business and the cold begins to leave. A catchy song comes on the radio, and she can’t help but sing along. She belts out the lyrics like no one is listening, and no one is. A cold sweat forms on her hands, and she retains focus as her turn approaches.

She turns onto the through street easily, and follows the branch to her street. She counts the small houses, third on the left. Not bothering to brake down the hill, there is a small sense of relief as all feeling is let loose when she turns the corner at the bottom of the hill. More leaves come into view, swirling in the air in time to the music that is still playing in the midst of everything. The familiar tree in the front yard now bears red leaves, and the one next to it yellow, she notices.

Turning into the drive way and cutting off the engine, she sits for a minute in the warmth that is her car. She catches the end of the song and hums with the words she doesn’t remember. Before the song is over, it fades into a commercial about a local restaurant. Knowing that she can waste no more time, she faces the cold winds out side of the car and grabs her purse and locks the car behind her. She quickly rushes to the door, and out of the cold. Inside isn’t much better, but at least it’s home.