I Wouldn't Know
Robert Lawless she moans faintly and rolls to her other side. i don’t bother to kiss her – she wouldn’t remember, or acknowledge it. it’s a strained back, or bladder infection, or nasty cold, or some other reason to forego a cup of coffee, before i head out. presumably, the sun will rise. i don’t expect to see it. i step on something in the dark – a book of poetry i wrote and published. still dog-eared on page 12, where she stopped reading after i gave it to her three months ago. i’d beamed proudly as i handed it to her, my love inscribed on the title page. . . some pages before page 12. predictably, the sun will rise. i’ll take it on trust as fact. six-thirty and i’m out the door as usual. time to go to work. we never see six a.m. anymore. i’ll get my coffee at the gas station, as my habit of late. forgot to charge my cellphone last night, nearly dead. so what? i don’t expect a call or a text. the sun may shine today. i suppose it happens. tonight, i’ll get home late from my second job. dinner will be on the stove. there is that at least. whichever night’s reality show will have claimed her attention, shared only with some game played on her phone. maybe a kiss goodnight, and then roll over. the sun came up today, and is supposed to tomorrow. i wouldn’t know. Truth judgmatically, and with narrowing eyes, she asks: where you been?, which translates more accurately to: who are you?; for truth, i died in the night, sometime ago. |
About the author:
Accepting and making peace with the ghosts of conflict and contradiction, Robert Lawless writes as a way of processing the pain and confusion that accompanies the determination to live as authentically as possible. Robert's work reveals dubious morals, tensions in love and relationships, the fear and romance of death, and a wide range of social ills. Robert works in the public school system and community as a mental health counselor, and lives with his wife deep in the woods of Louisiana. |