Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Testament

Saturday. July. Waking, she’s startled. Hot for early morning, she’s slept too long. The absolute knowledge of everything in a rush. Down the hall to the nursery she already knows her baby’s gone. Feet skid on the rug, burn, up the stairs Oh God the little boy safe, sleeping on his back. Slides to the floor against the wall.

That she wants out of their marriage, here then, the confirmation he isn’t going to let her. She realizes the test of it, this warning. If she fails, the next time he won’t return.

After that, I never knew anything for sure. My mind couldn’t keep track. All summer long I'd hear the church bells all the time, even when they weren't ringing, I'd hear them when I was downstairs or when I was sleeping, but they weren't like bells at all, they were, instead, like scraping noises or clanging, grating, sheet metal or iron gates.

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