SeeingRred
Every morning, she sits in the driveway, eyes glazed, staring straight. Her head hangs, arms drapes over the wheel, body folds forward saggy and slumped. It is a while before any movement. When she does, it is one swift sweep to compose. Her face slants upward, shifting by degrees, methodically seeking the sun. When she finds it, only then she breathes. Long, slow breaths, so deep they fill her. A warm glow spreads, tinting her cinnamon skin, lifting her brow, curling her lips, puffing her chest until she sits erect with posture. Then motion, tempered by stillness, releases in an iambic flow. Eyes, wide-opened, follow a finger to slowly touch. The door creaks and retracts.
On occasion she bounces up and out. But, more often than not, she sits. She waits. She watches. What is it that keeps her? Is she afraid, fearful that the sun will leave when she walks in step with the shade?
She hesitates, because only she knows. There are ghosts. Old and wanting. Captured and contained. Hers and his. Theirs. They taunt and glean, clamoring for attention. She tugs. He pulls. Over and again, feigning acquiescence. She clings to him as certainly as he holds her, dancing the same soulless dance.
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