By: Marc Livanos

It was late January and the air was damp. There was a dusting of snow. The panels on the windows were frosted. The fireplace burned brightly.

Audrey and I live in a cul-de-sac of Ficus and evergreens. Often the branches quiver, beckoning us to join them in mindless ventures. But tonight, the house is quiet and the parlor calm offering a beautiful, balanced modulation for two exceptional souls, a heroic couplet of calm. A meditative repose to serve as a refrain to our post-traumatic lives embedded in raising a disabled child.  A subtle setting to release ego.  

Audrey is next to me. I spoke sympathetically as if about something nice, I said. “Good weather this week. Sun turning to rain. Then, back to sun again.”

The climate in front of the window was quite changeable. Too hot, too cold, light and dark. The blinds were up, letting light cast shadows on the flocked wallpaper. Winter light streamed in and bounced off the white wall.

Audrey, a whey-faced woman in her 70s looked out over a cup of tea. Her storied face acknowledged yet another night alone without friends. I was speechless as if in a library reference or doctor’s waiting room. I would never have been able to make an impression in such a room, though I would’ve loved to have left an imprint.  Eventually, I asked, “Have you reflected on the boy you married.”

No response. I blurt out! “I need you to hear this.”  

Marc needed to get his own life and not always lurk behind walls and try to sit next to me. When he talked, I resorted to a cryptic system of shrugs and peeved signals, which he tried to decode. There was a slice of schematic quality in those conversations, a hapless choreography. I tried to ignore him. Somehow, every word got lost in translation. Words failed me here as they had never failed me before.

I failed this woman is the most honest thing I could say. The obdurate swell of my stomach again turned in on me. The nature of my question was making me see what our relationship was for her. A hybrid of sorts. What answer was I looking for?

I stared stupidly. I poured myself a glass of wine and considered my life. Images arose of children and a young wife; melancholy memories, refuse left in the wards of my mind. Sentiments of earlier times.

Her silence is casual. No access possible. No romance. I need her response to be a spiritual mediation, akin to a realization, or divine utterance.

“Are you tipsy.”  When Marc and I got together, many times he seemed tipsy.  I have reverted to type with him. I just want his language to register everything I have lost. Still, I am cryptic.

Our room is as blank as a featureless a hotel room. It makes me feel insecure as a proper sort of woman with a family life, could make an impression. There was patterned wallpaper yet no imprinting of personality. Perhaps some decorative wooden letter on windowsill or bookshelf that said “LOVE” would help. I spoke sympathetically to him saying it snowed last week. I tried something nice to say.

I don’t want to say, “Look. I need to hear this. Tell me what you think of me,” and you straight away or robotically respond “Oh it snowed last week.”  

“You don’t get me. I massively need to hear that you accept that my every waking            moment lurks with anxiety. I’ve given all my life. I’m seventy and my hair is falling out.”

We stare at the fireplace. Somehow it soothes old wounds. Its warmth provides a comfy piece of mind as we remain bedside friends, sharing images of what’s gone by and visions still to come. Its light reveals a sonorous truth of parting ways. We swap stories and search for a perfect ending. What answers can a fireplace bring?

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Marc Livanos is an accomplished poet whose work has been featured in numerous esteemed literary publications, including Sheepshead Review, POEM, Down in the Dirt, and Straylight Literary Magazine. His poetry has also appeared in journals like Floyd County Moonshine, The Penmen Review, and Artifact Nouveau, showcasing his talent and versatility in capturing vivid imagery and emotional depth.