Science Fiction
2020 Blows
Writer’s Log: Early Christmas Morning
It’s early Christmas morning and I’m standing on my front porch, soaking in the light rain plopping down on an unseasonably disjointed 54 degree day in December. Tonight is predicted to drop to 24 but for now, a strong gust of north wind passes right through me. It feels raw and chilly. I barely give a second thought to the nicotine rush that used to be part of my morning mantra.
Everything is grey and soggy except for some twinkling colored lights on my neighbor’s veranda. Fat raindrops fall, like pebbles into a pond and the air is clean but aches my joints.
I see four people scurrying into the church down the road. Somehow, my heart leaps with alternate bounds of sadness and joy. I feel frozen in isolation.
Thoughts interrupted, I faintly hear my name and that familiar voice calling to me to come in before Christmas breakfast gets cold. I’m having serious second thoughts about that cigarette, but my pockets are empty. Inside, there’s twisted smiles and wide-eyed wonder, tousled hair and anticipation dressed in red, cozy pajamas. The kitchen is tinged in warm sepia and holds moments of precious memories, if measured only in microseconds.
I see the birds hunting for crumbs. Without an umbrella, I pull my hood tighter to my head and make a dash for the corner store. Until I realize, there’s nothing in my pockets. And the clerk behind the register looks right through me, as if I’m not actually there.
Connie Song 2020
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
