by Lisa Marie Brodsky
Because I dreamed of ten doors and behind each door was the wrong man, I climbed the attic stairs and saw you going through my trunks of papers and books and asked, who are you? and you smiled at me looking like a fire-touched lion and said, the attic has a door, too and a ribbon of carpet led my feet to yours as I floated to your side. Im adding to your things, you said. I saw Mozarts bust beside my dusty copy of Les Miserables and I asked you about the door again and you said, Im not the wrong one But Ive dreamed of 10 doors every couple of nights and theyve all been wrong, I said. There was a thunderstorm outside, tornado sirens.
Get away from the windows! I warned while I searched for my cat. How do you know this is the right door? you asked. Distracted, I mumbled, This is just another wrong door, Im sure, now wheres my cat? Just look up, you said. I searched behind the velvet curtains no cat. Nothing counteracts sorrow, I whispered while peeking under the pile of fallen lace dresses. The sirens grew louder. Doors shut in front of me. I ran from box to box; I wanted my baby.
Look up, you repeated. The tornado loomed closer; I could feel the centrifugal force already. The noise approached like a gorilla roar. Where is she? I yelled. Look up! you yelled back. I looked and you were holding her; she licked your chin. I ran over to you and relief shuttered through me as you put your free arm around me and the attic door closed like a mouth and I said, The door closed behind me. This is the right room, you said over the screech of banshee wind and storm. I looked into your eyes and hugged my cat in your arms. How do you know? How do you know? and the tornado twirled into the room, turned into a spiral of crepe paper and rained down on us.
Posted on 06/22/2007
Copyright © 2021 Lisa Marie Brodsky