Atlas & Alice | Issue 4, Summer/Fall 2015
Restoration The nightmare after your mother died: I opened the bedroom door and observed a chasm cut into aged wooden floorboards. Just beyond the void, you shuffled toward me. Your doll swung from the tiny fingers of your left hand while you wiped sleep from your eyes with your right. Your bare feet inched closer to the abyss. I yelled for you not to move, but my words tumbled into black silence. You advanced, oblivious to the fracture in the floor. I watched as you vanished into darkness. The dream after your mother died: You and I danced in the kitchen to unheard music. You laughed at my out-of-date moves as you locked and popped like a Hip Hop star. We raced each other up the stairs to the second floor. You placed your bare feet on top of mine, our legs choreographed in a mirrored performance. We danced from one end of the hallway to the other. Our combined strides compelled the joists below our feet to unite and mend the fracture in the floor.