Leftovers.

was sitting in that old chair, the one I had brought from the little blue house, over sized and over stuffed but comfortable. The weather was a bit unusual, raining lightly, but sun low enough to be shining under the edge of the clouds on the horizon. It is a wholly odd feeling when the dappled sunlight dances on the wall as the rain falls, like being between two worlds for a moment. I sat there, bourbon in a glass, window open, "Russian hill" by jellyfish spilling from the speakers across the room.

It was at once, oddly disconcerting and pleasant, this feeling of being slightly out of sync with everything....caught between two realities that were momentarily out of reach in this strange void. I looked out the window, feeling subdued by the sight of rain coming down between myself and the sun, not a soul on the street below. I brought the glass to my lips again as a warm gust of air pushed through the window, the tree outside swaying in time. A familiar feeling brought a grin, that feeling one gets when the first bit of alcohol reaches the head, warm and glowing like Christmas lights.

Basking in it, my eyes moved to the sidewalk below and my grin vanished. A large cardboard box sat at the point where the walkway to the house met the sidewalk. I leaned out the window into the breezy, English rain and squinted......there was writing on the box I could not make out. I stood and made my way downstairs and out the front door, stopping on the porch. I looked up and down the street, everything bathed in an orange light and covered in the gathering rain water. I stepped off the porch and walked out to the box.

"left overs"...The writing was scrawled across the top in hurried ink. I opened the folded flaps and stared at the contents for a moment, familiar little faces, smiling up at me.....almost mocking. All the stuffed animals I had ever given you, discarded.....left to this rainy walk in front of my house. The smiles on these fuzzy little faces seemingly empty now, devoid of the love that had been tethered to them. They stared up at me in mute pleas, making me feel guilty, as if they had feelings. I reached in and pulled the little gorilla from the crowd and looked at his goofy grin, the tattered heart on his chest barely showing any color now, the bright red dye having faded to dull pink.

I carefully placed him back into the crush of furry shapes and closed the box, relieved at not seeing their sad little grins. I picked them up and turned back to the house, walking up the steps and into the open doorway. I paused on the threshold and half turned, looking again at the sun as it sank below the bruised clouds.

Leftovers indeed.