That Eventuality

Fermented Freedom

      When I return home that day, I assure my mother that yes of course my day was great, and I'd made a friend already. I wasn't about to tell her what really went on, in a way simply to spare myself the trouble of explaining. I head up to my room, which still feels so "new", mostly because a lot of the boxes have yet to be unpacked.

   I flip the heavy cardboard of one of the boxes labled "misc Amy", undoubtably my mother's handwriting.

Therein lies most of my magazines, which I can't ever bear to throw away, and my postcard collection.

    Sometimes I like to convince myself I actually go places by collecting post cards, and they serve as great decor on my walls.

I sigh and walk over to my dresser, where my Hedgehog, Roger, lay sleeping in his enclosure.

I hate to wake him, but....

    He stirs as I run my hand across his quills, and they prickle to my touch. A pang of guilt strikes me as I think of the creature isolated all afternoon, but I suppose the fact that we're both lonely provides us with a common stance.

  I cradle him to my chest, and carefully position my body on the windowseat, which lays perpendicular to my chest of drawers.

You know what this moment needs? The Beatles.

    Setting down Rog on a nearby bolster pillow, I turn to my record player, which is perched on a lowly box a the moment, at least until the movers deliver our remaining furniture.

After much debate, I decide on "Revolver" , and rush to join my hedgehog back on the cushioned window seat.

    Closing my eyes, I think of what Paul might be doing at the moment. Perhaps discussing a chord with George, or having a laugh with John. Thinking of John makes my head ache, due mainly to the fact he was Kat's favorite Beatle; and thinking of Katherine fills me with remorse (even if I did think of her twice today.)

My lids close between the feathery tones of the music, and I slip into a dream.