Dear Hardwood Floor,

by The Merna

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This morning my socked-feet came down upon you as I twisted myself out of bed.

I pulled on a pair of worn blue jeans and a white t-shirt. The all-American look. I scrambled some eggs and the only sounds awake yet were the sun coming through the green trees outside and the eggs cooking in the pan.

They sounded like upcoming freedom.

Then I ran away. I folded the paper and left it on the kitchen table, 

 

 

 

 

and I ran away.

 

You were shocked as I slid across you to the front door, yanked on my boots and hopped through the low window. I ducked under the clothes line, breathing in the smell of fresh linen.

It was then that I couldn’t keep myself from breaking into a run any longer. I spotted a truck knocking up clouds of dust as it approached. With one look back at you lying there, confused, through the still-open window, I ran towards the truck. 

I readied myself and half-lept, half-hoisted my self into the open bed. Sitting in the back of that truck I smiled at you.

 

And I ran away.

 

 

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