When I returned, I found a desolate home I hardly recognized – red carpeting with a diamond pattern I would have never picked, broken glass on the floor, an unknown red chair as the only furniture left. The windows looked different, half boarded up, one thin like an embrasure, and strange blue light seeping in. My plant had grown tremendously and was in motion, playing with a streak of blue light. Had I really lived in this place before? Now that I thought about it, I could not even remember how I’d gotten here and where I’d been. And you were gone. But who had you been? All that was left was longing – as undefined and wavering as the blue light.
– James Steerforth ( © 2008 )
Written for Café Writing’s April project #4, Can you picture that?
Photograph © by L. H. Prior.