Walking about recently I noticed a striking resemblance between plywood covered store fronts and masked people. "A Striking Resemblance" takes that concept as inspiration from which to expand into a melancholy what-if scenario. Additionally, HERE you can enjoy the video where I read this piece MOMENTS after I finished writing it for a special raw-unedited rendering! I look forward to your comments.
A Striking Resemblance
They would have been getting home about now. The youngest with her weight in books, walking like a character out of Frankenstein. The quiet boy, eyes bright, lost in last class’ lecture. And our college-bound star, running in, dropping off her books, grabbing a juice and driving off. I would have shown a few sites, said hi to that funny clerk that always calls me “Bub” when I ask for the Times, stopped for a snack at that market we met at, and arrived myself, about fifteen minutes ago. She’d have entered soon thereafter, we’d have been buzzing with excitement, tales of our days written on our faces, cupboards half ajar. She'd have tossed her day bag on the sofa, her coat atop, her purse at me and smiled. I’d let it drop— I always have, why shouldn’t today have been any different? All of us have been home for more than two months now. The youngest just finished another “graphic novel”. There’s no way to tell our quiet thinker that the reason his chair is uncomfortable as of late is because he hasn’t eaten in several hours— no, he’s lost in a marathon of lectures, we think currently he’s listening to a discussion about Solar System Sightings and Soundness of Self, but we’re not all that certain. The senior has been running in place even longer, weeks it seems, but at least she hasn’t gained any weight, better than the rest of us. I read some of the report I was sent, went out for some groceries and saw a striking resemblance between plywooded stores and masked people, didn’t even go into that local market— the one we call “ours”— couldn’t, forgot my mask, and quickly returned home without procuring any sustenance as planned when noticing how long the lines were, but mostly idly flipped through old yearbooks remembering when. Now she meets me in the kitchen. She grabs a frozen something, I, a can or two… We’re mechanical. A meal is created.