Cathode
It was such a gentle curve of glass. A rectangle of slow ellipse and rounding corners. And always dusty grey.
Alive with colour and noise; bright splashes of primary, solid Halloween night black, ghost light white.
This was where she lived now. Not burned into the back of the screen, like TV company logos and Teletext words, but reflected on the screen as if she sat again before it, laughing, crying, studying intently; shouting answers to questions asked long ago; yelling at those she disagreed with; shouting “YES!” at those she agreed with, and footballers scoring goals.
But she did none of those things. She stood and stared. Like someone caught on the street when memory fails or directions confuse.
“Where am I?”
“Why am I here?”
“What am I doing?”
There’s nothing to watch on the television these days. It’s so old now that it couldn’t receive a signal even if there were.
But the screen is dark and dusty grey, and she stands there in white, alone and unmoving and I watch her.
I remember her laugh and her touch. Her voice and the autumn strawberry scent of her.
I remember tears and the rain, the dark clouds and that one peal of thunder that rang like a bell over the hill.
I remember that one handful of earth, and the terrible hollow and dead sound it made as it hit the wood.
I sit closer to the screen, and I think I see her smile. I think if I reach out a hand and touch the glass, would it be cold or warm, and would everything be right again?
Latest posts by Andrew Cheverton (see all)
- All The Things We Ever Were - 30/07/16
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- On Montague Road - 25/12/15
- Cathode - 26/08/15
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