Danielle L Turner
I come from preschool in the basement of a church that now exists only in fond memories. From days spent in the snow that always melted into nights of gooey marshmallow hot chocolate, tangled in blankets in front of gas fireplaces. From bedroom doors left open after being tucked in tight to fall asleep in the comfort of the light that trickled down the hall from the living room. From running jumps into piles of leaves raked at least a mile high on orange and red and yellow days. From shakily taking the training wheels off my bike on a dead-end street that seemed only to go downhill.
After the Rumbling
The first thing I felt was the rumbling. It seemed like it was coming from the inside of me, forcing its way out, getting more intense with each passing moment. I had to still be half asleep. I couldn’t remember making it home last night, but I must have. I could tell I was in a bed; I felt my legs tangled in the sheets and when I reached my hand up to brush my hair out of my face I felt the silk of a pillowcase. But there was still the rumbling. I closed my eyes tighter and convinced myself I was somewhere halfway between a dream and the delirium that lingers when you’ve first woken up.