an orphaned guitar sits upright on a bright yellow velvet armchair. i play with my hair, feel the loose strings resound quietly in my scalp. a pair of gray rubber shoes are left to dry by a leg of this chair. the cement floor soles my feet with a layer of dust. i am standing on an abstract painting: there are patches of grease, driedmud, meltingsnow, and lines of duct tape that resist peeling after the four-square games played when the unfinished house was more like a sunlit ceiling-less cave. i have lived here long enough to picture calendarsflipping, clothesunfolding, drawerssqueaking open
and shut, candlesdwindling, bottlesemptied, drinksspilled, duststirring, organization unable to stand up against time. the dust settles again as i step out the door, silence falling upon disorder like a distant avalanche. we have constructed a small miracle, Hans insists, who has seen entropy ablaze take down our cabin. i believe him by the cracks in the new wall, for there is no reason for this place except for a fire and giving rise to something real that was asking to become.
Kristine Aman graduated from Denison University with a degree in Creative Writing. She currently lives with her grandparents in Tucson, Arizona, where she enjoys painting, sewing, knitting socks, hiking, and writing. She is an aspiring fashion designer.