It's cold and wet. It might be night but I don't know. I don't like this new place in the wet snow. It wasn't intentional but here I am. I'm wedged in a crack between stones, beneath a bench. Around me the earth shakes and shudders, light comes and goes, and people walk and run about to their destinations. It didn't used to be like this. Once I was passed from hand-to-hand. Some big, warm, and calloused with age and work, others soft and small, young. I passed through rooms and spaces, landed in drawers that were metal or plastic or wood, making different sounds as I landed in each one. Thuds and clangs, ringing and echoing as I dropped. I passed through places full of voices, the sound of clinking tableware, the smell of meats and soups filling the air; through cold and warm when the one who carried me paid for a cab in winter, through pockets full of lint and in wallets that smelt of plastic or leather. The leather ones were my favorite, so soft and warm, always held close. That's how I ended up in this damp place. The one who carried me was careless and dropped the wallet upon the bench. With a thud and a scrape the wallet flew open and I was thrown from it to tumble across the ground, before sliding from the light into the dark. Caught in a crack where I now wait for another hand to reach out.
About the Creator
Eda Marie
I am an avid reader and aspiring writer, most of what I write here is in the attempt to find my voice, mother of two, full-time teacher and caregiver, and have a passion for language and communication.
Comments (1)
Very nice viewpoint