Could Be Anywhere

[As I had always feared, nursing school took the wind right out of me. I will be better in the future; I will spread myself out with more care. But some places, no matter how long you stay away, are easy to come back to.]

Am I too tired to see what’s there? The west-facing windows offer too much light for the hour. As it sets, the room gets warmer. Too warm. It feels unnatural. I leave the blinds open, though. The view of the street make me feel neither at home nor near it. As if I’m walking away from a person I’ve just met, and can’t decide what I don’t like about them. Just something. I could be anywhere, but I am not.

On a chair too short and too stiff to enjoy the rest. By a window to warm to be tempted to open it. The bushes and branches twitch at the bursts of breeze that must not hold a current. In fact, they are so infrequent that I am startled every time it picks up and I see a flicker of movement in my far right field of vision.

The walls are white, but not as white as the ceiling or doors. Nothing spots them but the switch plate; it, too, is whiter.

The dog can’t tolerate the heat, either, but she hangs around for my sake. Laying on her side, she is panting louder than the air conditioner, in full recovery mode. The cold air whistles through the vent at top speed, but doesn’t reach me. The streaming sunlight must change its flow, redirect it to some other corner of this room.

Then it becomes too difficult to summon the desire to keep my eyes peeled. So I slide down, throw my legs over the low back of the chair, and close them. The sunlight reaches every part of me. I don’t need a blanket. Sleep comes without trouble or effort. And I’m walking though the window.


About Anna Dawes

Writer. Blogger. Vegetarian. I have two dogs that make me a little insane. I'm a nursing student. I read a lot of feminist literature; I negate it by obsessing over fashion magazines. I listen mostly to lovely lady singers, read mostly female authors, and spend most of my days surrounded by beautiful women. I consider words to be a delicate medium that only the most willing artist can bring to light. In another life I was a classic thespian. I have a purple office.
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