This Low Circumstance

It was a beautiful night. Light fog, moon illumined mist hanging in the air, surreal as the domain of a dream.
 
Tears in the cheap linoleum flooring. Dust on the curtains, long undisturbed.
 
Tears upon my silent face, which has forgotten the warmth of breath, the wet press of lips and touch of fingertips. Duct tape on the holes of the heart I reside within, patches these thin arterial walls.
 
I listen for mom in the mornings. Make her a cup of coffee. Some toast with butter, maybe she is in the mood for strawberry jam.  
 
Muster a smile. Ask her, Did you sleep well? She tells me of her pain. I try to keep mine off of my face. I see her, old and gray. I see the accumulation of long years, of frustration, of loss and grief. I see my weakness, which has brought us to this low circumstance.
 
I see our poverty in her clothing, in her small, cramped bedroom. I would wash it all away. Give her eternal youth, give her boundless riches, just to see her well, one of these mornings.
 
I fill out job applications. Data entry, customer service, desk clerk, if I am lucky. Prepare to reenter the professional world. Prepare for the monotony, the stress, the almighty dollar and all it grants, that this flesh cannot do without.
 
I take my meds, trazodone to induce rest. I huddle into a ball, dive into sleep, beneath the weight of the world, like a submarine escaping depth charges.
 
Cold encroaches upon the small hours of the morning, bites my body with teeth that crowd out the insects. The deep wells of the star ocean held at bay by a single thin blanket and sheet.
 
This Low Circumstance
Or
The weight of the world
By
Daniel Christensen

Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.