Being On The Inside

 By Maryanna Gabriel

I thought I had landed in heaven. Feeling discouraged about a home that got away on me, a real sweetie pie, I sought to soothe my soul in a cafe. An early morning fire was crackling soothingly. Yellow checked curtains hung with little ruffs and framed wood windows where plants hung. The walls were sanded barn board with rustic painted murals, sheep in the sunlight, a farmer reaping hay, that kind of thing. The table was a work of art where objects such as shells were beautifully arranged, I suppose in a coating of fiberglass, that held it together. The sound of Irish pipes played in the background. My

heart opened. 

It felt like heaven. Santa Claus came down this chimney and surely elves froliced in the garden. Nothing could ever possibly go wrong in a place like this and all the shadows of the world and in my life receded. Problems felt like little butterflies. I realized I had forgotten my glasses and stepped outside towards the car. A young, well-dressed woman lay collapsed, abutted onto the building, but also sprawled on the sidewalk with her bicyle to one side. Drugs. 

Here I was inside having a lovely coffee being warmed by the fire, feeling to be caught in a vision, and she lay in the cold on the hard concrete, as autumn leaves fell. It's weird how it all is.