Alessandra G.

A blank canvas sits in the art museum. A timeless, endless sheet, save for the one unwavering line of green.

I step out into the blanket of the heat’s embrace. My Jiddo and Baba done filling up fallen tires, and adjusting gears, I amble my way to the bike. It isn’t my bike, in fact, I am not entirely sure whos bike it is, but we packed on our way to Ohio.

The night was melting over the stretch of time, coated in rain. Not a harsh night that may come to mind. It was a mild, promising darkness that blanketed the town. As if the storm stepped aside, making room for the wandering souls.

I awake from my nap, from my skin being tenderly embraced by the hurricane five feet upward. Their new ceiling fan. No noise roused me from my slumbers, in fact, it is unbearably quiet, but it is midday, and my body is ready to resume its duties.

The music surfaces from the stairs behind me. Tenor strings accompanied by the looming brassiness of the french horn. It tugs at my ears and scans the glossed etchings of the table. My eyes settle on the weathered blue of the file holder.