Windy Walks

Walking home at night.

I took a step out into the humid night. The air

was hot and it weighed me down. I made my way

to the middle of the barren blacktop, where small

puddles filled the dips and curves in the street.

The smell of rain still lingered in the air from

the war that Mother Nature waged on Earth

that day.

A thunderous storm, bright, flashing bolts

of lightning, rain pounding the pavement.

I walked down the middle of the street and I caught

glimpses into the houses of others. In a nice, large,

brown house sitting to my right, I saw a man sitting

in a reclining chair, with the glow of the television

on his face. I look to my left and I saw a completely

dark house and I wondered who is in there �" if anybody.

A little way down the street,I saw a house that is

completely lit up, a lively-looking house.

The golden light that the light bulb released on the

kitchen showed otherwise. The light shined upon

a couple sitting at a table. Maybe they were eating,

or talking about their events from the previous day,

or maybe they weren't talking at all. Maybe they

were silent, sitting in a sad quietness.

As I continued to walk, I heard the water splash

under my shoes. I felt a drop splash up and hit my

leg and simultaneously I saw a flash of lighting

light up the dark blue night sky. It seemed lost,

forgotten, as if the storm had gone on without it.

A car passed me by and almost soaked my clothes.

I bet the driver questioned what I was doing walking

around this neighborhood that late.

I kept walking and I looked into another house. A

man yelling on the phone. I wonder who he was

fighting with. I wonder what happened, what

went wrong, how it could be fixed, if it could at all.

I don't like fights.

I reached the steps of my house and I marched up

them, as I always do. I stomped off any mud or

excess water that was on my shoes. I walked in

and I stared at the depressing walls that shelter

me.

A house, not a home.

Here I am, staring out of the window, coffee in hand,

wondering if anybody looks into my windows

and wonders about me. I wonder if they wonder

who I am, what I'm doing, or why I'm so angry.

I take a step to the large window in the front room

and I stare out of it, looking for a sign of life, looking

for somebody to be looking at me. I look intensely,

but fail to find anybody.

I've never been that interesting,

anyways.