Outside the window there sits a box. It has never been opened. It has never left the spot by the front porch, even though the weather has come and gone. It is made of a strong material, something that would appear to last the test of time, or maybe it’s something magical, either way, it has not moved since it was placed there by a man in a grey uniform like so many men in grey uniforms do every day.Inside the window she looks out, eyes peering over the edge, looking only to make sure that the living still exists, that she has not wholly lost touch. The sight of a person is all she can muster, to let her know she is still part of the living.

Outside the window there are trees, and the flowers are in bloom. There are birds chirping and a cool breeze, they have all come out of hiding. The smell wafts into the window where she sits, huddled in the same spot she has been for weeks that could have been minutes or years, she has no idea. A clock ticks loudly in the corner with the minutes and the seconds but the dull clacking does not phase her, the clock does not receive any recognition. Most of the time she just looks out of it, at the box on the front porch. She has tried to move it, tried to lift iron limbs and crack solidified joints but she is simply frozen, to this spot, to the box outside the window.

Even in the night, she sleeps by it, pulling her bed as close as possible and letting the summer breeze touch her skin, leaving one hand on the windowsill. It reminds her of the beautiful boy, sitting on the doorstep with his head in his hands, it reminds her of the things she never said. It reminds her of a day in December, where pride or one of those other things that puts up an electric fence between the us and the them held her back and did not say wait come back for me take me with you.

It hangs in the air as she remembers the sound of the train coming and the news of a disaster. There is a box on the doorstep, addressed to Marian Willows from Jackson Hanes. There is a box on the doorstep with a dress and a note that says come with me I promise you things will never be the same.

He was right about that, and she hears the train again and the crunching sound that hot metal makes. Things will never be the same. Things will never be the same.


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Authors Note: I have been struggling so much lately to write. It would seem that nothing is coming, nothing of note. I have been challenging myself to write longer works, but feel as though I have been stuck. In the last few days, some of you have reached out to me, encouraging me to keep going and to come back to this place. Thank you for inspiring me always <3.

Jerry Kiesewetter

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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