Dating : The Town Above Us

I was eight years old when my mom took me to visit the town above us. Not to the North, but overhead. We had to wait for a very particular day of a very particular month, and climb the stairs in our tiny colonial farmhouse to the window in the stairwell just as the sun passed through the laurel trees. I asked my mom if grandma had taken her there when she was young. She said no, that it hadn’t been there back then.

The town above us was like any old New England town, though inhabitants were sparse and when they did appear, they shot past like Degas’ dancers, romantic and blurred. Most of the houses were an antique shade of red, leading up a long but quaint street to a great white church atop a hill. I asked mom about the people, if she had ever spoken to them or visited for tea. She said no, that they were all far too busy, that our visits were to be brief, just like our visits to the local garden shop.

There was an old antique store in the town above us, packed to the ceiling with furniture and knick knacks of all varieties. My mom walked with intention to the back of the store, surely having been there before, and I followed. She stopped before a solemn volume propped up on a golden stand. I felt a flash of remembrance, of apprehension.

“Mom, don’t touch it,” I said of the book, unsure of the reason but sure of the necessity of the warning. Her hand curled back toward her chest after having grazed the leather-bound cover with her fingertips.

“Almost the same as before,” she said, a look of fear overtaking her. “Let’s go home,” she said, taking my hand and rushing for the entrance. My senses were accosted with memories of repetition. In a whir of contemplation, I remembered we had been to the town above us twice before, passing by the very same houses, entering the very same store.

“Mom…”

A look of fear swept through her eyes. She grabbed my arm and ran with me to the window through which we had come, as dark clouds like the deep ocean rolled in over the town above us. We made it to the window and onto the staircase just in time. My mom drew the shutters as hail hit the glass, tiny threads of breakage traveling across the panes like dew on dying leaves.

“You’ll have to go by yourself next time, dear.” Mom said, her hand on my back as we walked together to the kitchen.

“Why is that?” I asked, my small hands fumbling with the lace trim of my dress. She said nothing as she opened the cupboard to reach for teacups and spoons, but she had that look on her face like the night daddy passed, and the sky was dark and dead, and I heard the voices of other women in the foyer with Mom, and all she said was “When?”

THE END.