A King and His Kingdom

/ Katie Hands

This week, I challenge you to mark your phone as off limits. Instead, the next time you reach to take a photograph, pull out your trusty notebook, open your favorite note-taking tool, or fire up the WordPress app.  Rather than giving into the urge to take a picture, write down your impressions of the scene. Who’s around? How does the air feel? What sounds do you hear? What emotions are you experiencing?

They say that the eyes are the window the soul, but the soul isn’t a window to the eye. Is it? The window to the eyes is, instead, just a window. Peering through my front window, I see the fog roll in. In fact, I can almost feel it. It’s strange to think that you can only see through the fog when you’re directly in the middle of it. When you’re on the outside, you have no ability to look in. You can only question and guess just what lurks on the other side. But inside this fog, I see plenty. An empty street, quiet houses, white snow intermingled with green grass that knows, with each passing day, it gets closer to its death. It’s colder now. Colder than you would think. The air is thick to bursting with perspiration that has yet to fully reach the ground. The air is sweating. The rain drops come down like a leaky spout; not fully present, but there all the same. There is a house. It sits between two other lonely ones. Everyone is gone for the day. Making money and spending it just as quickly. But this house remains. The porch slowly takes in the fog and the cool air, as well as, the spouting drops of freezing wetness. Amongst the gray porch, the yellow siding, the large bay window, and the potted plants that cling to life, is a bench. A single bench, upon which sits a cloud of white. It suddenly moves its head in every direction. Watching and taking in the abandoned street. Thinking that each car that slowly rolls past is the one who will greet it in the driveway to its left.

He sits and waits. Waits for someone to pull up and call his name. To pat his nose and to rub his ears. But until then, Chandler sits. Sits like a King looking over his Kingdom.

 

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