The building was locked, and she fumbled for her key. It was on one of those old keychains that was hanging on a hook at home, she figured. She probably would find it impossible to get back in, after all those years of neglect. But it was her building.
Surprisingly, the key was on her current chain, right next to the keys to her car and office. With a little groan, the back door to the building opened. She was back.
It looked familiar, though so faraway. She spent hours rummaging through old things, hardly believing they were her own work. Yes, yes, there was that old personals ad for God, and how she’d forgotten about the stalker who called her one of God’s prophets. She laughed as she remembered how her dear cat interloped occasional tidbits. She basked in the memory of the field guide for dissertators, and shook her head slowly, remembering the events that led to her poetry and eventual closing of shop.
And she looked back fondly at those days, lifetimes ago.
The workroom was dusty, lit now by a single, exposed bulb. So much had happened since then. So many people were gone. So many things had since come and gone. While wondering what she could do with this old place, her gaze fell upon something there on the dusty desk. How she’d never be able to live with anyone again. Shortsighted. She read a list of plans for 2007. Some happened, others didn’t; such is life. And she sat there, in a melancholy place, for quite some time.
She walked out to the performance stage. It was unlit, the small seating gallery invisible in the darkness. Was anyone still there? Would anyone return? Were the seats even comfortable any longer?
She certainly wasn’t the same as before, but figured they weren’t either. Nothing remains, really.
But what could become?
phlog 