Memory of the room: foggy.
Yellow and possibly brown fungi growing behind the chair.
To describe any further would mean that I am living the inverse of this reality.
As inverse as it gets, without breaking into poetry.
I remember the sun was hours from rising.
The meal was soggy from lack of cabin pressure.
The oxygen masks had not yet been deployed.
I remember there were lights, or the hint of an illumination that eased into the room like silver.
The silver made sense as a sign of peace.
Between us, the sun had set in wrath.
Yellow was a reminder of daylight: the unattainable brought on by an awakening.
The logic of our weathered past was lightening.
Steel bolts that may have fixed the chair, but made it attract the wrong kind of electricity.
I remember being spiked on many occasions.
I blamed circumstance, and environmental conditions.
But the wrong memory had taken over the landscape:
This story was supposed to be about love.
published in The Marsh Hawk Review
photo by Chatallot via flickr
Robin Reagler 