Small Somethings

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A Softer Earth

Henry Wallers had found himself airborne again. That is to say, there was a gray cloud inches from his left shoulder and a snoring stranger to his right. There were women in stockings, snacks in rolling carts, ginger ale, seat kickers and gum smackers. Henry’s emotional turbulence was threatened by that of the sky, he concaved, praying to the engines. Heavy in his spontaneity, Henry existed in the empty space between two opposing Times. Guilty in his desires, Henry built a mental block between him and Boston.

He was leaving with no intention to return. He was flying with no expectation to land on his feet, his toes curled at the TV static and the storm that brewed from a distance. Henry followed baby droplets of rain down, down, down, the acrylic window. He squinted between the fog, trying to make out the curve of the Earth. Could there be a softer Earth? A rounder Earth? A softer version of himself in a strange city – less heartbroken, less defensive, less haunted? 

The sky growled, as did the snoring stranger to his right. Beasts, everywhere, he crawled over laps and shuffled to the fluorescent restroom with the roaring flush. Beasts, everywhere, Henry met his own gaze in the mirror. Eyes dreary with doubt, chin scratchy with neglect, blue as ever, scared as ever, he sighed. A new apartment with new neighbors, a new boss and new strangers. The same dating app, new prospects, the same hyper mind but a tender heart this time. This time, he swears, because he stared into his pupils until the motion sensor lights went black too, and still, all he saw were mistakes. A future that already feels like it passed, Henry wants to change. 

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The Walls Run Thin, Hear My Voice

There is a strange house on the corner of a road coated with golden leaves. 

It sits between two other houses, both crumbling at their edges. 

The road, its leaves, its crumbs, and me. A neighborhood without neighbors, cars sit parked but never driven. 

I remember it all. My father flew through fifty states to see the outline of my life. 

It is family weekend at college. 

Worlds collide such that the parents come to the parties. 

The mothers and fathers catch a glimpse into the crowded lives of their sons and daughters. 

Kids hide their handles of vodka in a drawer of dirty socks before becoming children again. 

We try to remember how to slow down. 

This time, please, can I exist inside of a moment rather than in between two? 

A moment so easily stripped, not naked but gone, entirely. 

A minute, so commonly spoiled, not rotten but absentminded.

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