Artist: Jonathan Guy-Gladding (JAG).
around the house. She turns away from the window,
leans against the sink, and chows down — a familiar
routine. She stares at the unopened boxes that line her
kitchen walls and thinks, “I have to get to those soon.”
Orlando plays “good dog” at her feet. His puppy dog
eyes looks playfully into hers. She “accidentally” drops
a piece of chicken and he of course, rushes for it — life’s
small pleasures. She returns her gaze to the window, and
her smile wanes. She’s never been a fan of the dark, but
she’s learned to live with it. She washes the one dish,
sets it down in the dish rack next to the one bowl and the
one spoon from breakfast, and turns the lights off. She
may have to live with the dark, but she doesn’t have to
listen to its secrets. Someone told her that not so long
ago. She can’t remember whom.
In her comfy pajama bottoms and t-shirt, Anaisa cozies
up in bed. Orlando hops on next to her and takes his
place guarding the foot of the bed. She reaches for the
book on her nightstand, and flips to a bookmarked page.
The trees outside her window rustle. “Why does the dark
turn you into giant monsters?” She asks. They don’t
answer, they simply sway. Through the shadows of
swaying trees, Anaisa spies a dim light piercing through
her neighbor’s dusty windows. Inside the house, a
shadow paces. It stops, and waltzes back to the window
facing Anaisa’s bedroom. It stands there, perfectly still.
Morning comes.
Anaisa’s at the kitchen sink dressed sharply; bowl of
cereal in hand, and staring into her neighbor’s yard. The
peaches are ripening! She spies the butterfly perched
on one of them. A smile creeps up her face. There’s
something so innocent about butterflies. Bowl to her
mouth, she gulps her milk and wipes off the mustache it
leaves behind. She washes the one bowl, the one spoon,
smoothes her wet hands down her skirt and ponytail,
grabs her purse off the kitchen table set for two, pats
Orlando on his head, and pulls the door shut behind her.
Her day goes by as usual, uneventfully, and nighttime
finds her again in her PJs, comfortably tucked under
african Voices
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