ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

How Strange
Sarah Irene Robinson
I was sitting in my chair, my new chair that makes me want to
sit at my desk all day and write glorious things, or read books or
research bees. I was sitting in my chair and I wasn’t doing any
of these things. I was looking at the finances for my business, I
wasn’t adding or listing or making fancy spread sheets, I was just
looking at them, in wonder of what I could do with them. They
weren’t tangible, they were on my computer, otherwise I would
have put them in a draw and that would be them done with.
A very busy knock at the door kicks me out of my wonder. The
other day I had a similar knock and decided it was too busy of
a knock for me to get up from my wonderings, but today my
wonderings were numbers bouncing up and down, so I was happy
to engage with a very busy knock.
I opened the door and a man begins his tired spiel about some
charity or another, wildlife whosit or nature helpers or whatever.
There is a flyscreen between us and I am aware that I can see his
face, but he cannot see mine. I watch him while he speaks and
his face becomes clearer, it’s my cousin. I open the fly screen door
between us so he can see me and we both just stand there in awe
of the situation.
As small children I’m sure we played together a few times,
though no specific or detailed memories come to mind, then
there was a massive gap of twenty odd years and then there was
my Pa’s funeral two months ago. Where all us cousins shared
awkward hugs and small talk, realised we were all of similar
temperaments, enjoyed our common ground and parted without
exchange of any future musings.
And there he was standing there at the door, a feeling of great
affection came over me, and I bundled him inside. Frantic with
the kettle and the coffee. We were both off balance and didn’t
mind the halted conversation. We couldn’t seem to say enough in
the short time, but still allowed a moment or two for an awkward
pause. It was his first day canvassing on his own, how many doors
he must have knocked on. I offered him a seat and noticed he was
shaking. He spoke of how horrible people can be in this line of
work and the shaking shook itself out.
We spoke all too much and he said he couldn’t stay long and the
conversation found greater pause. I told him to come around
again, have another cuppa. He said how funny the other workers
would find it, him banging on the door of his cousin. He kept
saying, how funny and I kept saying, how strange. It was a happy
encounter, too many of so much in such a small amount of time.
I went for a walk when it became dark, to let whatever had welled
up in me breathe out slowly. The streets are poorly lit, yet I found
a strong comfort of the darkness. There wasn’t too much out
there to pay attention to so I could be lost in my unwinding self
without interruption from the outside world.
It’s a good ol’ world, playing its games.
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ReadFin Literary Journal