|
By darwin Date: 2006 Mar 21 Comment on this Work [[2006.03.21.17.50.16476]] |
| I find myself doing little things I haven't done since I was 10. Sitting in front of the heating vent, those old brass ones, with the worn black paint chipping off. The familiar sounds of the forced air, as the ducts exhale their brilliant heat onto my skin. I sit, head on the carpet, my feet, setting just above the grated opening. I hear you talking from the other room, talking about fuel efficiency, and how high gas prices have soared. We could fill our car up with a gallon of milk, and not feel the difference. Maybe we talked about the weather, and how cold it was for the first day of spring. But I was absorbed in the simple act of lying in front of the heating vent. Lifting my shirt to feel the pockets of air as they belched their way in. I felt content, and then you walked in from the other room. Spying me as I lay sprawled on the floor, my eyes dazed, and my voice a tone of dreamful bliss. And you laughed, and the words you loved me tumbled out. As they often do when I am 10 years old again, and lost in a land where fuel prices don't matter. |