Here. You. Me. Home.

grant edwards. lizzy gone

6:45 in the morning and the sky is grey, skyline silver, and all the cars in between make this great assemblyline city surge. I could almost get sentimental. I take my roommate, Kathryn, to the airport asking if she's happy. she says yes. to go eat at the "in and out" burger joint only mass produced on the west coast. to enjoy summer and less humidity. Shes happy to be going home, she says.

I returned a ladder I borrowed from ms. mimi down the street. (I actually lost her original ladder and had to go buy a new one.) last month i painted clouds on her ceiling, complete with her grandchildrens names secretly encoded into them. ms. mimi works with kids during the day but her husband, josh, is usually at home when i come over, watching a tv that comes out of the mantel and can go back in when theres company. josh answers the door and im holding the ladder thats not really her ladder in my hand. i forgot that a few weeks ago ms mimi had told me josh had a brain tumor. i feel forgetful and sorry for him. his hair is patchy now and behind him i can see theyve moved a twin bed into the dining room and the dining room table into the den making watching the mantel tv difficult. i return the ladder. make small talk about good restaurants in the area. think about the macaroni and cheese im going to eat for dinner. im sorry ms. mimi for loosing your ladder and thinking about easy mac while your husband is dying of a brain tumor.

4:35 and im on my way to get my car fixed. im edgy from spending too much money on the ladder and rush hour traffic and city rain that isnt decisive about pouring or not but just drizzles constantly. i walk in and the man at firestone says sacrastically "someones having a good day!" i try to beg my way down a cheaper price or a fixing deferment until i have more money. $389.49. unless you want your wheel to fly off while your driving. awesome. i step outside to wait for a ride. light a clove. blow cinnamon tasting smoke into the air defiantly. a lady with bad blonde streaks and a grey sweatshirt walks by. she has a black eye and her nose is busted. she looks at me self-conscious and accusing and embarrassed. i wonder why she didnt pull up her hood and block the rain and hide her eye. if you fall your arm usually hits first and you break that instead. someone hit her face, her friend, her lover, her husband...

kathryn. josh. lady in the grey sweatshirt. you arent really home yet. but i dont blame you for believing this is all we got.