Unconditional
Kate Zurovchak
Class of 2014
Rochelle
Art Stix and Soap
Noah Duffy
Class of 2014
22
I knock on the door, but you don’t turn
around. You never do. Nevertheless,
I still wait a few seconds before
entering. I guess it’s a bit of a habit. I
may not be a child, but I still abide by
your rules. Shutting the door quietly,
I look around the study. You are an
avid reader; you always were. I take
a cursory glance over the authors
I know so well. Dickinson. Poe.
Hemingway. When I was little, you
would lie on the bed beside me and
read to me. I remember how happy
you were that I wanted a book for my
fifth birthday instead of a doll. I’m
afraid that you are going to become
immersed in the imaginary world of
literature and never return to me. The
wooden walls and floor are as dusty
as the bookshelves. You blend in well.
Your arms are clasped behind your
back as you stare out of the window.
I can only imagine your thoughts. A
picture of Mother sits on your desk.
Her smiling face has gleamed from
that spot for nearly fifty years. Her
auburn hair shines bright, and her
green eyes burn with fire. I wish that
I could find the courage to walk up to
you and wrap my hands around your
cold, stiff fingers. I wish that I could
hold you in my arms and tell you that
all is not lost. I wish I could bring
mother back. I see the wrinkles on
your collared shirt and black dress
pants. If she were here, she would
never have let you get away with
wearing those wrinkled clothes.