Prompt #2 - Where I Found Myself Not Too Long Ago

My original ideas for this prompt were completely different than what you see here. The harder I tried to write out my Plan A material, the more boring and lame it got. So here's what I finally came up with.

I pass by a window on my way to the bedroom, but I refuse to let myself even look at it. I know all too well that the sky beyond it is bottomless cornflower-blue, and the rich green leaves on the tree whose branches form a perfect cradling arc over the house across the street are like an army of flags waving on a hill, enticing me over to greet them. Best to avoid temptation, as there's still work to be done.

The shades on the bedroom windows have been drawn since yesterday afternoon, when the setting sun glared through them and made it almost impossible for me to see the words in my book. Resisting the urge to yank them up, I cross over to the stereo and press the power button. The room instantly fills with music; something in the pit of my stomach slackens, like a knot unraveling that I didn't even know had been tied.

I pick up the dustcloth and set to work, allowing myself to get swept into the rhythm. I keep a steady pace around the room by counting out the beat, swishing the cloth over the furniture as though each motion were a step in a dance. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the headboard; two-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the nightstand. Soon, I'm back where I started, and I trade the dustcloth for the broom. I imagine the floorboards are the keys of a giant piano and the bristles of my broom are thousands of spindly fingers, and I compose a silent melody.

Before long, I've finished with the whole room, and it's finally time to enjoy that delicious-looking day outside. I put away the cleaning supplies and switch off the stereo -- but the music doesn't stop.

The summer breeze whispers through the trees lining the street, creating a cadence of rustling leaves that flows around me as I walk. My feet, clad in last year's fraying flip-flops, scuff haltingly along the sidewalk, picking their way over the lumps where tree roots have protested being paved over. Somewhere nearby, a cicada hums to himself. I am not completely alone -- I pass a jogging woman and an elderly couple out for a stroll, each of which smile and nod to me, and I return the favor.

Even if I had met no one, I would not consider myself alone. The events of the day before yesterday, when my friends and I gathered to drive to the same old places and eat junk food and generally do nothing much at all, stream incessantly through my head. Each burst of laughter, each sarcastic comment, each impromptu critique of the newest song to blast through the car speakers seems as vivid as if it had happened mere seconds ago. I smile to myself.

I reach the park. A wide swath of grass stretches before me, framed by gnarled trees on three sides and a moderately busy road on the fourth. I cross the road and make my way across the grass, hunkering down on the far side of a rock so that I can see a bit of each. I almost open my book, but I simply sit for a moment, my fingers splayed over the spine.

I've never been a very pious person, but, I suddenly find myself thinking, if there is a Heaven out there somewhere, I hope it's not much different than this.