Porthole

The Edge of Night

30DBC: Take us on a sensory journey to a place that is significant to you. Try to describe the place using all of your senses so we can be there with you!

I already did this twice today in two of my other blogs:

"Dried monkey and a choir of angels (Yamagata, March 2015)" 

"Trash and Sitting in front of my window " 

So three's a charm?

Imagine December. I'm 8 or 12 or younger or older.

I am supposed to be home when the streetlamps come on. They come on early in winter in the north.

The night is damp and cool or damp and cold. The sun is setting over the old post office... or maybe it's already gone. The plaza has a dime store, a clothing store, a butcher, a baker ... for candles go to AM&As, for food Loblaws.

The wind bites through my jacket. I'm supposed to wear boots. Shoes are expensive. The street rises ever so gently to the doctor's house on the corner where the lilacs along the sidewalk and the pink magnolia out front are resting. I pass the empty lot where I'll look for discarded plants come Spring. I slosh through the slush.

Why am I out?

The main road hasn't been widened yet. It's easy to cross. I run to the other side every day for school. Maybe I'm going for a walk, maybe to buy a gift. I know I have no money. Except for lunch, I never do.

The house will be warm. The floors hold the heating system. I don't wear shoes inside. The smell of lima beans and corn will greet me. Succotash by any other name... comes out of a can. We'll have flank steak tonight rolled up and cut into pinwheels, baked in the oven.

The neighbors are already eating. They come home early from the nearby factories. There's no traffic. There's a kind of a hush.

The deep grey clouds break here and there but the weak sun doesn't warm... and it's slowly setting.

The lights have come on. It's 4:30 and time for the The Edge of Night.

My father will arrive home when it's over.

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