LIT1 Nikkie Yeh: Milk, Button, Trumpet


Lit and music teacher from America, but in Asia

I sit in the kitchen, lips still feeling the buzz as I rest my trumpet on my knee. I feel quiet, but not quite calm. My eyes find the glass of cold milk on the table beside me. As I drink it down, I can see the old clock on the wall through the bottom, veils of whiteness revealing the hour.

You're not home yet, the trumpet's echoes sound from the white painted walls. I expected you an hour ago.

Will you come home to me?

I wipe my mouth on the folded red cloth napkin. I can hear the clock through the fading echoes of the "Saint James Infirmary" blues. The counterpoint of swingtime versus clocktime burrows into my reverie and I raise my eyes to the kitchen window, intermittently bursting with blown snowflakes and views of the front walk and the mailbox. You aren't on the path.

I let my eyes drop. Snowy footprints lead from the door to my chair; they stop between my feet. The prints are your size, I realize, as a button is pressed and my soul drops low.

I feel the frosty mittens on my wrists and fall.


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Comments (2 so far!)

Average reader rating 5.00/5

Mighty-Joe Young LOA

Mighty-Joe Young LOA

I really liked this, i wish there were more pencilsbso i could show how much i appreciatted the fleeting ephemeral quality of the artist's rush.

  • #1632 Posted 4 years ago
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  • 5 out of 5


Thank you!!

  • #3961 Posted 2 years ago
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  • Published 5 years ago.
  • Story viewed 6 times and rated 1 times.

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