Eagle Landing

"The Light Behind the House "

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The Light Behind The House


Moments ago, I sat in the darkness of my living room, intrigued at how my eyes quickly adjusted to not having the light around. I could see clearly the moonlight from the back window, shining like that of an F150. The light continually got brighter and brighter and brighter until a certain point where the brightness evened out to become part of the room. The stereo could be seen, not heard. The painting on the second floor of a young man and a young woman on some Caribbean beach somewhere was heard, but not seen. It was mostly dark blue, and I could hear the moon shine from this glowing masterpiece. Everything in the piece seemed to smile.


The phone was visible. Overgrown grass in the back yard could be viewed just beyond the barren, lonely deck. The deck that needed to be painted red. The curtains stayed open. We never closed them. It was a thing my wife had against closing things that nobody could see into.


My arm itched. I played with the phone buttons while scratching the area where the needle poked me just days ago. The part of my body that has affected so many things, but nothing at all. It was my arm, a symbol of a many thing depending on what part of the world you call home. What part of the world do you call home?


I call home, home. Very little do I cook in my part of the world, but I can see it pass me by, even while sitting in the comforting darkness. Once, I drank one drink too many and could feel the world moving at 67 thousand miles per hour instead of the usual 66 thousand miles per hour. The next morning, my mother handed me a paper that read me my rights as a “man”.


A smell leaped from the darkness. It was the smell of nothing, the sound of nothingness. I felt that if I sat there long enough, I would see Jesus, come up with an award-winning poem or begin to jerk off to a make-believe song on the radio. After all, I could pick my tune.


I thought about the job I lost, and the friends I thought I had. Other thoughts consisted of the next number I would definitely delete from my phone memory. Then, there was the other memory that could not be erased. Impacts such as that can't be deleted so easily.

I smiled at the flicker of a light speaking to me from the other side of the fence. The light that reminded me of the F150. Light that descended from the moonlit sky, the night.

Curling up into a ball, I wondered if there was any milk in the fridge. I thought about the day ahead, the one that got away. The light did seem to get brighter outside, before dimming again. But then again, there was a street behind our house.


By Seth Batiste