Scrabbles

I hear it inside the walls. The scratching travels up and down, room to room, and I follow with ravenous curiosity. Lines in black marker sprawl across my apartment, tracking the paths it takes. They’ve begun to overlap.

Little gifts it leaves, but always when I’m not looking. I’ve yet to glimpse its form. I once tried, strained my eyes to remain open as long as they could. But eventually they grew heavy and took me to darkness. When I woke, a single tooth lay before me. I searched my mouth with a finger and found the gap.

I no longer wonder where the gifts come from.

I wish to meet my little friend, and the thought occurs—what if I leave an offering in return?

What might satisfy it? Show it I mean no harm, and only want to know my secret companion? I think on this a while, picking at a scab on my head, until the answer is revealed by an inner revelation.

I run to the kitchen, open a drawer, and take out what I need. It likes parts, as shown by the prized collection I’ve gathered on a shelf. And what better part than to show it I want to see?

I take the spoon, place the lip below my lower eyelid, and pray it will suffice.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.