it's subjective really
By Abigail Cleveland
all I got to say is middle of nowhere, middle of something, but mostly middle of nowhere. home
is a bowl full of trees and one maybe two fields of alfalfa, pronounced alfa-alfa just like my old
man says. home is three maybe four miles off the dusty plains of Bloomington, population one
twenty-five. school strays a bit further, like a cat that’s found better food elsewhere. ten miles to
Franklin, to friends, population 999. in between ten miles, three maybe four miles, and one
maybe two fields of alfa-alfa is the annual pancake feed, garage and yard sales, the newborn
horse, a multitude of cows, and cars that drive too fast and cars that drive too slow. home is an
overflowing bowl trying to calm my nerves and it succeeds.
first the tears-
no actually
my mom’s presence, I thought
I was in trouble.
the sunlight of her hand making
my hand glow when she grabs it. she said,
“I’m leaving your dad.”
then, nothing
just the feeling like two people
standing on a white sand beach
inside a static, stalled television
talking about the weather.
the channel changed and here are the tears
and they were like
knives, rusting divots down my cheeks.
my heart had been split into two and her hug
sent me spiraling. the words I
had been expecting to hear
for years finally found
their impact on my life.
all I got to say is nothing, maybe something, but mostly nothing at all. home has disappeared,
no longer that bowl off the dusty plains of Bloomington, but rather in my bookshelf where I hide,
but rather in my computer where I dissolve, but rather in my bed where I die sometimes,
but rather in my class where I retain nothing, but rather in my clothes where I drown,
but rather nowhere at all where I am renowned.
Abigail (Abby) Cleveland is in her second year at UNL majoring in English with minors in art and classics. She has a dog at home who loves her very much and misses her like crazy. Abby hopes to continue in the work of literature at a publishing house as a copyeditor.
Recent Posts
See AllWhat was Norman doing here? He didn’t belong in a museum.
Comments