FEEL

17. Wollah

Wollah ~ the feeling when you realize something that you've misunderstood for years without knowing it.

~ The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows ~

~°~

I rose at 10AM from a sleep so relishing that it still lingered heavily in my eyes and made my body feel hallow, although, in a peaceful sense. When I got up, the dark blinds were slightly drawn, not too much to wake me up, but enough to let in a little light. That, and the fact that Gracie was gone let me know that Mr Pierce had come in and she must have left when he opened the door.

I get up, looking around his bedroom for the first time. I couldn't do it when I first came in because I didn't want to appear like I was snooping. Mama says not to stick your nose around other people's houses, especially not their bedrooms. “It's none of your business,” she had said, even though I would catch her peeking into the neighbors' kitchen and judging how they have arranged their cups.

I head to the black-brown solid console about four feet from the right side of the bed. It has three pillar candles on either side, a cream colored vase with a green plant in it and some books stacked lying landscape with their titles facing front wards. I could bet all my money that every room in this house has at least one book in it.

I look at the frames on the walls. Artworks, mostly, but there's one in specific that catches my attention. He has a poem framed, called A Good Day, with his name written at the bottom and the date.

Cameron Pierce, 2 April 2001.

I wasn't due to be born for another five years at that time. I wonder what age he must have been. I read the poem for a clue, coming closer to getting a clearer look at each word.

It is a little less skillful than the one I had read in his office, amateur in comparison, so I deducted it had to be among his first ones. Ten years old, maybe, or a little younger that that considering what he wrote about.

I leave the bedroom and go out into the living room. A sudden nervousness knawes at me as I narrow towards it. One that he might have caught me last night, or simply just one of knowing what I did in general.

The couch is empty, as if nobody had slept there to begin with. The entire house feels empty, in fact. I look around for Mr Pierce, only to find the balcony doors wide open and him standing outside. I head over there with slight hesitance. He smiles upon seeing me, making all my reservations disappear like they had never even been there.

“Good morning,” he greets me. I note that he's already dressed for the day. A dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms, navy blue to accentuate his eyes and matching pants, brown boots at his feet. Contrast to last night, it was sunny outside. A mild gust settled over, as if Boston wouldn't be so kind as to grant us any warmth in February, but there was light nonetheless.

I greet him back. “Hi,” then tell him, “We missed school.”

He chuckles. “We did, didn't we?”

“How old were you in 2001?”

The question is sudden. Confusion etches across his features as he flicks some ashes off the cigarette I now notice he's holding, then he says, “About four years old. Why?”

I frown. That can't be right. “I saw the poem framed in your bedroom. I thought you wrote it.”

The confusion falls away and his expression eases. He looks back out into the cityscape, shrugging with suave. “I did.”