Memory is an antique record player, hidden in a gray suitcase. A woman boards a train, holding it at her side, walking hand in hand with an old friend, a box of dreams, fears, guilt, love, loss.
She steps off the platform, walks down unfamiliar streets, into an unfamiliar building. It feels cold, smells sterile, and death sinks in, black clothing, black roses, cold earth. Blocks of rooms, numbered doors, her door. She unlocks it, enters quickly, and closes herself inside. She sets her case on the table, opens it, and drops a disc on the player.
Warmth fills the room, fire by the friction of major and minor chords. She settles in a chair, closes her eyes, and watches. In the in-between, he's there, smiling, laughing, reaching out for her hand.
Writing prompt suggested by Kim of PugsAndPics.com! And in case it isn't obvious, I hate hotels. Ha!
2 comments:
This is lovely Gretchin! I'm going to share it on my site tomorrow, if that's okay. You really can write!
Great!! Thank you do much!!
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