Hercroft

She rests in her chair, tossing a tepid gaze into the window beside her. This happens often on nights like these when the clouds come to reign over the somber sky. The pavement outside rests solemnly, void of any traffic. All the cars are asleep. No one is uttering names anymore and so the silence only grows, masticating every stray thought crossing the avenues of the mind. The darkness outside painted over the windows, the light inside can’t help but bounce against the glass. Suddenly, the window is a window no longer. It becomes a mirror. I don’t glance often, but whenever I do, I make sure to focus on her reflection instead. Somehow, it’s easier that way. Her hair has been burnt by the years. She finds time once a month to have those spent wicks of hers slathered in dye. I can’t figure out why she’s ashamed of her gray hair. It is the marker of a full life, of hour hands reunifying at the midnight of life. Those eyes stay fixed on the outside, past the window. Perhaps, she’s studyin...