Loaf of Bread

You’re in the basement of an old home. Footsteps and empty furniture scrape the floor above you. The wingback chair and the loveseat have already made their way out the door and into the back of a thrift store truck. When the movers return for the coffee table and the hutch, their voices reflect the emptiness inside the room in harsher more hollow tones. Their voices remind you of what you’re about to lose and what you’ve already lost, and the dull pain this produces inside of you forces you to act, but it’s an empty act and it makes you think of the guy you saw last week at the grocery store who stood there checking the freshness of a loaf of bread while staring off into space at something he wished had never happened. You don’t even really know what the dull pain inside of you is. You think you might feel it when you open the fridge and then close it again empty handed, but you can’t be sure. You can never be sure. You can never be sure of anything and it keeps you searching. That’s it! You’re looking for something, but you don’t know what it is because you can’t make sense of it. You can’t remember it, exactly. Yet somehow you know it’s hiding in the far corner of the basement, so you go over there and you get down on your knees and you sweep the floor with your hand and there it is. You pick it up and bring it closer to your face until your eyes send your brain the necessary details, and there in your hand is a key. You rub it with your thumb, removing decades of dust while looking up and to the left, in the direction of a cellar spider that you don’t actually see because you’re not looking at it, you’re looking through it, at the locking diary you got for your fifteenth birthday but never used. You made three unwritten entries in all, and each one was a declaration of how your future would be.

Then you hear a voice.

It’s the voice of the key.

I got lost…Do you know where I’m supposed to go?

You shake your head, because the future never happened.

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5 thoughts on “Loaf of Bread

  1. You have changed. You are becoming a different person if a post on THs can be counted upon. This is a fine piece of writing. Now just write 60,000 pages more and you have a new book. Our writing has changed. WTF has it been four flicking years? I’m watching a dating show right now in a nice hotel room Mexico City. So maybe some things never change. Thanks. Duque

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks D. I look at sections like this as the meat of the sandwich. Sandwiches can’t be all meat. The bread and the sauce and the lettuce and tomato etc, are all in the mix and I’m guessing they’re the dialogue and the descriptive passages fleshing out the scenery and the character studies. Anyway, I like meat as much as the next guy, but a sandwich is a sandwich…and don’t forget the mystery sauce.

      Like

  2. I’m reading this on a darkened train stuck in limbo in Rhine something or other New York. It’s a train full of french speaking Quebecers and the train will soon run out of food and drink and the toilets will overflow and they’re laughing. Even if the train is allowed into Penn Station, we have heard that a train derailment has made the station a scene from Dante’s inferno.

    Perfect read for such a situation. Perhaps I will read it aloud.

    Like

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