She

Another endless discussion. Dysfunctional, as they all were, and silent departing.

From the next room, the words took on a familiar hue. She listened, not listening. They were always the same words. They started with “she” and trailed off into a familiar refrain which would no longer touch her. 

She heard them nod and whisper. Conspiring.

She, different, and lonely, and alone. The odd one out. 

No real family for her, but also no more self-loathing.

Murmurings like the tide ebbing and flowing, peaks of sound like waves splashing against innocent rocks, filtered under the door like indecorous smells from septic tanks on cold winter days.

She laid the clothes carefully in her suitcase; she rolled thread bare socks into corners; she tucked  fake silk scarves into pockets. Zipped and closed hermetically.

She, another she was being described in the adjoining room. She, another she, was being ravaged. It was the she that had helped them get through life. The common enemy. It was the she that had made their miserable lives less miserable. The black sheep.

She frowned. She put the suitcase on the floor. She pulled out  the handle. She wheeled it to the bedroom door. 

She smiled. She made lame excuses for an early departure that were accepted with relief. She kissed and hugged and embraced embarrassed faces. She said “No, thank you, I've called a cab.” 

She walked out into the cold holiday air and breathed like she had never breathed before.

Behind her, the words took on a familiar hue. She listened from the front porch, not listening. They were always the same words. They started with “she” and trailed off into a familiar refrain. 

Matilde Colarossi (testo e immagine)