Poetry Of Us
It was the next morning. I woke up to Darren holding me. He was on my left side, as I was on my side, and he was holding my waist. My hand ran down his bare side. His skin was cold from the wind coming from the opened window; that must have become open during the night.
I got out of the bed when Darren turned over and he released me. I covered him and went off to the kitchen. I was in a baggy, grey t-shirt and eeyore' pajama pants. My hair was tied up, too. Then, Kity walked downstairs with Claire in her arms. She was talking to her.
"Are we hungry?" She said in a soft voice.
She looked up and saw me. She smiled. "Hi," she said. I smiled, too. "Hi."
Then, from behind me, I could hear Darren walking into the room. I looked behind me and he had black pajama pants on and he was bare-chested. I smiled, he rubbed his eyes and then smiled at me, too.
I noticed that Kity was examining our facial expressions and reactions to each other.
"So," she started with a smile, "what happened last night?" She still held the baby in one arm. She handed her to me to put her back in her crib, for she fell back asleep as Kity was talking.
I was surprised, "Kity!" She laughed. "Nothing happened," I said, I laughed and hit her, jokingly.
I went back into the room and formed a circle of pillows for Claire to sleep in. I shut the window after I set her on the bed and went back out into the kitchen.
The first thing I heard was: "Are you two...?"
I sighed and said: "Yes, Kity."
"I knew it!" She said, then laughing again. She always seemed to be the kiddish type and I loved it because she knew how to interest people and keep them talking.
I sat down at the kitchen table. I wasn't too hungry so I didn't feel like eating breakfast. Darren across from me with a cup of coffee, him setting it on the table. I stared off into space, thinking. (I could feel Darren's eyes looking at me.) I thought of how long I hadn't seen or had any contact with my mother, and I thought of where my father was. I missed her, my mother. I wanted to see her.
"Kity?" I asked.
She looked to me and then I looked to her. "Do you have any stamps?" I asked.
"Yea, why?" She asked.
"I need to talk to my mother," I said.
She smiled. "Sure! The writing things are in the back room," she pointed behind me, to the shut door. The long window on the door was stain-glass, multiple colors painting the glass. I got up and opened the door. When I did, I large cloud of dust flew up. I coughed and then looked back to Kity.
"When was the last time this door was opened?" I asked, still choking on the dust.
"Maybe the 1940s," Kity guessed.
"You have never been in here?" I asked her.
"Nope," the room was left like that when Martha and I moved in. We didn't open it because we were afraid of what we would see," she explained, leaning against the raised counter.
Then, Darren stood, "I'm going in, too," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"I just wanted to see what was in there," he said.
We both went in. The floors were old and had a fancy rug laid on it. There were book shelves on every side of the room, almost every wall. Papers stuck out of the old books and most of the books were on the ground, them who fell off of the book shelves a long time ago. There was a desk, sitting in the middle of the first half of the room. It was an old desk that looked like it belonged in the white house.
