detachment

For a moment, I was detached from this house. I couldn’t see the little fists wrapped around the rungs of the staircase. I couldn’t hear the laughter. The dining room was empty, but not in expectancy.

For a moment, it didn’t matter that the huge expanse of wall still lacked artwork: an abstract painting, splashed with tan and red, purple and black.

In that moment, we were nowhere. Not here nor there. Just waiting.

Figure out what it all means, and you’ll be doing better than I.

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