In response to the latest Northography stimuli titled “Unlatched”:
Is the door unlatched and open or
unhinged outside the presented view?
What else do I not see?
A silhouette passed through the yellow light.
Glass doorknob cold to the touch so
I let go and I wait.
I knew moments ago what I was waiting for
but that has slipped away into the ether.
Replacing that thought are widening chasms I
had hoped would open the door, freeing me
from having to reach again.
It is silent here in the hallway and
I hear nothing from within or without.
Cold becoming colder. The key held in
my left hand burns.
I hear a ringing tone from far off
somewhat muted, distorted, submerged in water.
Do you remember our time in Pensacola Beach?
We danced upon the white sand
running through high tide we took our
chances with thousands of jelly fish
swimming late into the evening beneath hot
Oil rigs hummed in the distance,
always churning water, day and night
the constant bittersweet orb competing
with sunrise and sunset.
And I have not spoken with you since.
In retrospect that was our apex and
upon arriving home what we built
disintegrated in our bare hands.
I kept some of the dust, locked in a
box in the attic entrance above the closet.
I do not know why, perhaps waiting, hoping.