Wednesday, June 16, 2010

moselle: chapter the second

polyvore collage

The rain came down in big gloppy drops and she saw no end in site.

The cab driver was middle eastern and smelled of curry and bitter tobacco. They didn't speak. She watched the drops slide down the window leaving snail trails. Her feet hurt more today than usual. The bills felt moist in her hands. She looked down at them and wondered how many miles they had traveled before landing in her possession.

Such an extravagance. A cab ride.

She paused before fitting the key into the lock. She put her ear to the door. She listened, but heard nothing.

Alas, her little finches were fast asleep, cuddled up on the far side of the perch leaving the apartment silent and uninviting. She opened the sealed note she had found slipped under her door and read it while she kicked off her shoes.

Miss Moselle,

Please note that all tenants are now required to personally transport their own trash to West side of the building. Fritz will no longer be making rounds to gather trash, he will, however, continue to collect glass milk and soda bottles.

As a courtesy to Mrs. Havenbell on the second floor, please do not ring the bell for entry past the hour of nine p.m.

Thank you,


She sat on the chaise next to the window with her legs curled up underneath her.  The room was fairly stark. Decorating on a beginners salary would take time. The damask wall paper would have to wait.  But she had her birds and her chaise. And now she had a warm bowl of macaroni and cheese which was a guilty pleasure from her childhood.  

And it made her miss her mother. Her mother who painted every wall in their family home gold and adorned them with blue and white Delft plates.  Oh how she had hated her mother's style growing up. But now, well now she would give anything to spend a day in her mother's warm kitchen, watching her  prepare a banketstaaf, sipping peppermint tea.

And she realized something there in her empty apartment, on her chaise next to the window with the rain drops softly pattering.

Her mother's style is true. Never changing. Steady and welcoming. It radiated directly from the heart of a gentle woman with love to give.  

The empty bowl and spoon sat on the chaise. The finches were waking, stretching their wings. 

The Delft tea cups her mother had given her were located and given a new home on the mantle. 

And she felt a little closer to home, a little more comfortable in her own skin.

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