There is a Woman

There is a woman. 

I see her now, 

on the street below my window. 

Occasionally she will look up, as if suddenly reminded of something she has forgotten, though I don’t believe she sees me watching.

It is time that I decide. 

In this small room there is a bed and a dresser. There is a lamp and a bedside table. There is a window that overlooks the street below. There is a strained view of the mountains to one side and the sunrise to the other. There is a door leading to a small bathroom with a shower, a toilet and a sink. In the closet, hang four pairs of pants and seven shirts. The drawers are stuffed with underwear and socks. I set my coffee on the sill. There are books under the bed and a mirror over the dresser. 

I rarely close my window. I like the sounds from the street and the cool air that comes in the evening. Mostly I fall asleep in my chair. I don't often use the bed but I change the sheets daily. There is a burn mark in the carpet in the shape of an iron. 

A woman and two little girls live upstairs. Every morning I hear the footsteps of the little ones running back and forth above me. It is a sound I have come to depend on. 

Everything is counting down, everything will end. 

I make my bed, straighten the stack of letters by the dresser. I listen to the footsteps of the little ones above to steady myself to the rhythm of their innocence. I brush crumbs from the creases in my chair. I turn to look at my little room one last time. I memorize the space, say good-bye to the future fermenting beneath the furniture. 

I turn to the window, take three steps and release myself to the street below.

I fall, 

I am falling.

Falling towards you,

falling to find you,

falling forever into the mysterious and beautiful unknown.