Page 47 - The Houseguest

I slept for two days on and off drinking water, vomiting what was left in my system, simply existing. On the third day, from my view on the floor, I noticed a familiar book on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It stood out because I had published it privately for Karina as a gift. It was a compilation of her poetry in a book bound beautifully in golden woven threads. Each work could be removed, edited, replaced if warranted. That’s what she wanted. She said her words, just like life, were ever-changing. She didn’t want them permanently bound. Though the verses were seldom actually revised or rewritten, she wanted that option. I recalled turning to her words in times of distress or for guidance. Although I was wishing to leave things just as they were, I took it gently from the shelf, dusting it off and letting it fall open in my palm. There, as if it were a sign, were the words I needed to read. I liberated the one single page from the book containing the words I would recite while releasing little Katie’s ashes, then placed the book back upon the shelf in the same position I’d found it.
The next day, I awoke feeling differently inside with a mission to complete. Though still dizzy, I showered. The hot water stung against the cuts on my face as the dried blood was rubbed with a warm washcloth. Having brought one change of clothes with me and a razor, I dressed and drove slowly to find a meal. I had to somehow raise my physical strength to match my newfound mental strength today. Because I’d made few friends in the town, I was able to walk unrecognized to the corner booth of a local diner we used to frequent. Almost enjoying some eggs and toast along with four cups of hot black
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life