The Turning Point.  


   LuAnn walked to the kitchen and got another beer, and stood watching the birds on her bird feeder. The suction cups holding the feeder to the window were turning yellow and starting to slip and the red plastic was fading to an unnatural shade of pink. It won't be long before that damn thing falls right off, she thought. The beer was cold and the condensation felt good on her forehead. She rubbed the back of her neck and blew the hair out of her face with a jet of air from the side of her mouth. Another night alone. Another night in Texas with a six pack and a dog. Sounds like a country song. She began to sing, her voice cracking from lack of use.
 I guess I'll stay another year in Texas.
My old man left me but the damn dog stayed behind.
My truck broke down
And I lost my job
And now I'm gonna cry.
She stopped singing and wiped a tear away with and angry wipe of her hand.
  The sun was just starting to peak over the slash pines on the back of the lot where her trailer sat, squat, and old, and faded, the lattice around the bottom broken and falling in the dust. Just the site of it made her depressed. Just me and the birds, she thought. Sometimes I wish I was a bird. Then maybe I could get out of this dump and figure out how to get rid of the junk in my head.
   She drank the beer and lit another cigarette, and she leaned against the counter top, her arms crossed, her expression one of depressed exasperation. How long had it been since she had a man hold her, she thought, or fix breakfast, hell just eat the breakfast I cook, or just talk to me. She drug her toe around in a circle on the dirty linoleum, the dog watching her, his head resting on his paws. This is bullshit, she thought. I'm not gonna just stand here and feel sorry for myself all day. She poured out the beer and sat at the little table and opened up her laptop and placed her fingers on the keys, staring at the ceiling. And the words fell from her fingertips. All of the pain, and loneliness, all of the hate and despair, all of the fear.
   She closed the laptop and wiped her face and walked to the bedroom and pulled the suitcase out from under the bed, and she packed her clothes, not bothering to fold them. She took one more look around the tiny bedroom with its fake wood paneling and crooked pictures hanging on the crooked walls and she called the dog and walked out of the trailer, the storm door banging in the wind behind her.

She stood

And the words fell from her fingertips

Her delicate fingers danced on the keys

With the grace of a bird, they flew

Writing her symphony of expression

Writing the words that were written on the back of her soul

The speech of her heart

The words her mouth could not allow to escape

For fear of their reality

Her tears fell to the keyboard

Her blood mixed with the pain of each letter

Each syllable pulling the id from its hiding place

Pulling the hair of a backwards glance

Pulling the pain of a lost point of chance

Words fell from her eyes

Words fell from the skies

Words fell to their knees

And blessed the day that they met her

Words worshiped at her feet

They became her disciples

And they spread to her thighs

And she shook through the heavens

She burned through the lies

She shook off her self-loathing

And found something new

Something useless

And borrowed

And broken

And blue

And now with the courage

Armed with new found truth

She stood and turned words

Into gold from her proof.

Tony Whitford  9/14/2012 5:44 PM