Short Novel in Progress…

(Short Story by Evelyn R.L.)

It was getting dark as the sun sat over the lake. Everything was very quiet inside the ranch style wash-white house that faced the now dark streets. Only one light was on, it was the dim yellowish light on an old light post that was tilted and almost falling down because our last storm. That night the rain was falling over the roof and ending down on the pavement and over the streets, as if it were pieces of broken glasses falling on the pavement.

The house seemed inhabited, but if you would peek through the windows, you could see that there was life inside there. Someone lived in that house, and it was a relatively young shy and quiet woman that lived there. She was sitting by a small lamp and petted her cat while holding a book over her trembling lap. The dim light coming from the lamp partially shadowed her face, and it made it look like one of Rembrandt’s paintings, half shadow and half-light. She had the same quiet and clam expression on her face, which you can always find in those paintings and in small kittens too.

So calm was her expression that it could have being mistaken for sadness. And it was; it was the outer shell of her sadness and a lot more. But she did not speak much. Her neighbors barely noticed her as she walked by with her bag of groceries later after work or as she walk to her mailbox to pick up her mail. And she was glad no one bothered her, or interrupted her solitude. She had waited long enough for this freedom of being by herself, of being forgotten by the world that once had caused her so much pain. Being this new old person, her anonymous self had being the only solution to all her problems, her nightmares, the only way she had of fighting for her ideals, the only cowardly way of running away…

She loved her house though, and her tranquil neighborhood. She also loved the trees that surrounded her large house; it seemed they wanted to hide her house inside them. But in a way she disliked her small town, her small windows, and her small life.
She missed part of her old life. She missed the man she loved so much, and she missed her children that visited her once a month, but that lived so apart from her…

Ms. Edith had being a famous Italian-Spanish pianist and artist who once was part of The Blenheim Music Circle in London. Now she was a simple home-wife waiting for her husband Marcos, a retired Mortgage Broker, to return home from one of his hunting trips with his friends in Ocala. Marcos always thought that Florida was a good place to retire to, on his early retirement at the age of 49. He was born in the late 50’s and was now 49. They’d lived there, in a small town named Saint Petersburg for almost a year since they left Manhattan. It was a big change for Edith who was now only 43 and the peak of her mature life, but she constantly felt as if she was at the end of her life.

Their children where still in NY. Ethan was 21 years old and was on his last year of college at Princeton, an commuted every day to his older sister’s house; He wanted to be a TV Producer or Video Game developer wasn’t making up his mind at the moment. Marie, his sister and the oldest child, who was 27 years old, was already a Professor of Art and Humanities at Columbia. Tara, the youngest and wilder was now 26. She was an environmental Journalist and Activist. He moved form NY to Cali and back to NY. She was now living with her partner in Soho, where most artist and environmentalists live. Edith was very proud of her grown children and very happy for their choices in life but missed them so much specially now that they were so distant from each other, but geographically speaking only. The children were inseparable and most of the time they would call each other and also recently they where calling her often. They were planning in visiting her and Marcos Edwardo in Florida for the first time since they moved back to NY, during their Spring vacation. It wasn’t that far since then, but to Edith it seemed a lifetime, being away from her children was the hardest thing.

It was autumn now, she noticed as she closed the shades. She though about the orange and tan trees of North Carolina, the small long roads of Concord and the Library in Downtown Charlotte. She remember herself walking to the bus station on an early winter, she remember her 1st snow in Charlotte, so different and so similar as the 1st snow she ever saw in NY, while returning from a touring trip to the Statue of Liberty, hand in hand with her husband Marcos. How much they had loved each other, how much they had laughed and enjoyed each other company’s. But this night as the curtains where run and her lamp was off, her large house seemed to lonely and to big for a simple quiet woman. So she turned on the radio, on an old station and she sang as tears as pearls or clear glass decorated her face…

TO BE CONTINUED…

About this entry:

All stories published here are copyrighted by Evelyn Rodriguez-Lallave.
Published Author of Grieving, Poems From a Gypsy Soul,(1 & 2 Ed.), and Alma Gitana; Cartas y Poemas de Eva Luna.

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