Questions Of Ashland

I remember the angled sunlight through the brick shaped window
heating a fraction of the blue room.

The duvet wrestled from me.

I was legs akimbo on the futon.

There were birds singing and cold linoleum.

I switched on the radio pre tuned to the BBC in London via a college
station.

I was pleased about that; everywhere I go on this planet I do this, my
comfort blanket.

At first I thought it was a play because it sounded too real, almost a
staged panic as the reports came crackling in.

I thought for a second.

'How clever'.

Then there was a voice screaming

'Its got to be a terrorist attack, it has to be it has to be'.

I sat up, felt my head become heavy and my bottom lip pulse.

I shook Jane, hissing.

'Listen, Listen'.

Jane told me to slow down because I was incomprehensible. She calmly
turned on the TV.

Her eyes froze.

She said that I must tell Paula, our host and friend downstairs.

We caressed her with coffee, told her something awful was
happening.

She fumbled with her remote control and the three of us watched CNN
from her bed.

I could see her fear and her anguish.

She has friends there.

I saw her bravery.

She said she wanted to take Harry, her dog, for a walk.

She did.

She returned an hour later with Doughnuts and Juice.

And a kind of reasoning for our questions of Ashland.