Monday, November 8, 2010

The Winter Blues

The winter slowly grabs hold of the little town in Georgia, chilling its denizens on the streets. The need for a refrigerator becomes practically and temporarily obsolete. The days grow shorter as weariness takes its toll. Men who themselves can’t put food on the table arm themselves to take out the starving dogs in the night. The leaves on the trees begin to change colors and fall below to the women sweeping the streets, leaving patterns swept in the dust. Some trees far away are butchered to form the pile of now decaying wood in the school yard, wet with sap and mildewing from the last rain. The grey sky obscures the mountains in the distance, peeking through the old Soviet buildings. A loaf of bread goes stale as it lies on the paint-chipped window sill with mold growing underneath from moisture and poor construction. Spiders claim space around the apartment, permanently fixing themselves in positions like spindly decorations as they too die from lack of sustenance. The fumes from cheap cigarettes waft in through the cracks in the window, delicately clinging to the walls, adding an extra layer of grunge. Near the door rest one pair of mud-spackled shoes, caked with exhaustion from a long, yet unfruitful trek through the open-air market.  The woman in the next room shuts the aging curtains, blocking out the street views and light distorted through the layer of dusty glass, to lie down in her bed, close her eyes, and long for an end.

The floor of the room is surrounded by iridescent faint blue walls. The clay brown planks of slightly marred wood breathe by means of open cracks every few inches. On the floor in the middle of the room stand two aging four-legged chairs, each covered in identical faded sepia floral prints, ripping slightly away from the bottom of the seat. One chair stands sturdily behind the other. All of its facets and grooves remain practical and intact. Its partner is positioned parallel in the foreground at the same unbalanced angle against the floorboards. They are both nestled together by a blanket wrapped around them, damp from a rinse in the murky water inside the wash basin. On the curtain rod hangs a man’s dress shirt, peeking jealousy in the chairs’ direction. On the balcony, a wind chime sings with delight, unaware. Lonely house slippers line the darkened hallway, next to the tired boots, with no hope of company in sight. 


  1. Dude, we should make plans to hang out. This weekend's a no-go, however, as is next week. The next I wanted to go to Ana's, but she's going to Abkhazia instead. So... December rendezvous?