S A T U R D A Y . D E C E M B E R . 2 6 T H . 1 9 9 8

There was no Christmas this year, no tree, no lights, no jolly cheer. I am not heavyhearted by this turn of events, perhaps relieved of not having to put on an act or play the mediator to feuding parents. This elf had off this winter of 1998 and I don't know what to make of my lack of feeling. Maybe it will hit me later, surely when I least expect it. Emotions can be so perverse that way, lurking up on you when you are not prepared.

I sat in my old room that had long since been converted to a den for my mother's retreat from my father's grumbling and said under breath obscenities. Strange to sit there on a loveseat opposed to the bed I grew up in, drowning out the strange silence that hovered just below the naked wood planks. I scanned the bookcase in what once was my room, my haven for escape to notice only remnants of my existence here in this house. The house in which I could never go to sleep in without light shinning in the darkness or sneak out of for a taste of freedom at night.

I sat detached from the girl I once was there in what once was my room, flipping through my old art history books with their dog-eared corners and pen scribbled notes. It was only just an hour ago when I realized my liking for Surrealism and Cubism most likely stemmed from the paintings; that no longer bring life to those stark white dining room walls. How had I lived here in this house, amongst this madness? With the exception of these books there is no proof of my existence here, no clothes, dolls, toys or even a stuffed animal remain here. All trinkets of this child, teenager are gone absolutely nothing remains here except random photos of myself plastered on walls and in frames strategically placed between pieces of art, souvenirs and such other odd and ends, something that they collected along their journey together and now their journey apart.

The silence made me uneasy and even somewhat bored, there was nothing left to say or do here. The meal alone with my mother on plain white china plates in tune with the metallic tasting wine was long since over. The last load of wash was dry and folded and tucked away safe in my car. I left my parent's house for what I believe to be the last time but I did not leave with my book, H.H. Arnason's 'History of Modern Art' the last proof of my existence next to a collection of photographs of a girl I can no longer recognize.

J U S T . W A L K . A W A Y