Seldom All They Seem

I call Friday night and a man shows up around midnight dressed in Patagonia looking like Elmer Fudd and says don’t worry I’ll take good care of your baby but they didn’t tell me his eyes would stay open and he looks like he’s staring at something only his body is limp in those meaty hands and I see the cartoon walk away then pour a glass of wine but drink the bottle and swallow a pill and when I wake up I curl myself on the bed where he lay before the baby woodsman lifted him then Bill says he’s leaving and I’m eight years old and Aurora from Sleeping Beauty on my parent’s balcony singing to the neighborhood cats I know you I’ve walked with you once upon a dream and I swirl and twirl and rescue me rescue me but for now I can speak with the birds and the animals the only ones who understand but I’m not eight I’m forty-six and the house is gone and my mom can’t hear me from the kitchen while she cooks and Opie can’t talk to me anymore because the man with the big hands took him away.

Christine Robertson is a writer based in Los Angeles. Her recent work appears in The Sun’s Readers Write and Eunoia Review. She holds a BA in English and French from UCLA and a Master of Community Planning from the University of Cincinnati, and has spent two decades working in urban planning and development. Her earlier writing—including essays and reviews—has appeared in the Cincinnati Enquirer, Kentucky Enquirer, Cincinnati Post, and the Journal of Urban Affairs. 

A Song for Christine