The Meadow 181 Leaving the Desert Tobi Alfier Through the trusses of the rail-bridge, wind makes an inconsolable sound, like pain, like the misery of everyone’s worst nightmares, like a burning desert of bleached skulls from all Georgia O’Keeffe paintings, hung in a gallery with adobe walls of mint and blue, the ceiling painted black, punctured with many tiny dots of stars. A troubled stillness fills the empty streets, like a camera with no film, still clicking shot after shot of a park, the benches splintered and warped, the lake ripe with mildew— the scent in this heat crinkles her forehead, no wonder there are no ducks, no children, no life other than ancient pennies with older wishes that stayed on the bottom and never came true. She is so tired. Even the wisteria doesn’t solve her sadness. She feels drained by the trappings of this life. Of his life. There does remain a tenderness between them but it is rocky, uncertain, like a night bird who doesn’t want to sing at all anymore, and doesn’t know why—that is how she feels. She wants to leave but the time is all wrong. She wants to drink but the time is all wrong. She wants to disappear on the night train, the steady sound of chugging getting loud as they both calmly approach the station. She got a map, almost bought a ticket, her freedom just a few train stops away.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==