Amherst Writers and Artists (AWA)
Prompt Write about a facade, something that covers to hides something behind it.
A nor’easter blew in. In 2 weeks, they had thirteen days of rain. Some vacation.
For thirteen days she perched on a small chair, three feet in front of the Weather Channel. The map was a faulty, more colorful proximation of what was outside. Her sons went out to watch the waves turn into a yellow-green froth as they hit the beach. The wind tipped over trees. Rain hit the windows sounding like birds with unreliable navigation.
All she really wanted was to go for walk. Things cleared for minutes at a time. The hearty sons they raised came in soaked and went out on repeat, all anoraks and boots. By the time she’d put hers on, the weather map changed from yellow to red again. It was pouring when she got to the door. She paced a groove 2-weeks-deep in the rug from map to window to door.
What I remember of him, married to her for so long, is that comfortable yellow chair and that physics book he had read a hundred times, held close to hide his face, serving its everlasting purpose.
I don’t remember them going back to Nags Head.