"Me too." His footsteps seemed to get louder with every step of his exit.
"I'm over you," i repeated now staring into the darkness. "but the thing is, i still stay up late to talk to you. i still see the galaxy in your eyes, and blinding lights when...
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As I sat in my bedroom, the smell of vanilla began to waft up through the sill. I peered out my window and mom waved, while grandpa's chopping wood on this dreadfully cold night as my brother fueled the fire pit. I peered to my right and watched my sister play fetch with our dog.
I always thought the woods always looked different at night. Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it. As if the daytime trees, flowers, and stones had gone to bed; sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places.
I let my book fall close. It makes an exhausted sound, like a padded door shutting, by itself, at a distance; the sound suggests the softness of the thin weak pages, how they would feel under the fingers. Soft and dry, like paper Poudre, pink and powdery from the time before, like cigarette paper. Like petals.
My eyes looked swiftly at the cover, I brushed my fingers gently over the edges. It too, smelled warm and dusty, like the inside of an attic. The fragile old pages almost became delicate snowflakes with the touch of my hand. Most people would have left this book without as much as a backward glance, but I fell in love. I appreciated the beauty of an old book and I always will.
Faint approaching footsteps came steadily and soon a respectful knock - thud, thud, thud - "Sage, honey, the food will be cold. Come down." I made to reply but Mom's footsteps slowly faded through the hallway. Like an echo.
My legs moved on their own and the wood beneath my feet creaked with every step I take. I looked down at the dusty, wooden staircase; It was glossy but broken and crack. I watched my feet take steps in my dusty canvas sneakers.
"Hey pops," I slowly walked towards him and wrapped my arms around his shoulder, bringing him closer to me. "What's for dinner? I'm famished." I sighed, his chest vibrated and I snuggled myself deeper into his neck. He smelled like cinnamon.
I always loved looking at my granddad. The map of wrinkles on his face tells the most incredible journey. His eye lines tell of laughter, warm smiles, and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. To be dismissed as "old" when he's so much more than the sum of his parts.
"Our specialty, sweet," he says as he tucked the mousy loose strand of my hair that managed to escape behind my ear. He smiled looking at me, adoration brightened up his eyes only for a second, "but" he paused and looked behind his shoulder, "it's different tonight. A young lad, handsome in fact, has come to dine with us for the night. I believe his name is Alex."
Mom has never invited anyone to our family dinner before. Who is this 'handsome lad'?
"But how? Why? mom has never invited anyone to our family dinner before, why now?"
