She was so tired, but she couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t because something was on her mind. She just couldn’t turn off her record player. It was spinning on this song, skipping at that one part, “take me down” which sounded like take me, take me, take me. Sometimes it would reach the next consonant, and she would have hope that her stomping on the floor had worked and the record had moved on from its malady. When had the scratch happened? She treated her records like dried herbs, as if they were as brittle as forced laughter. But she couldn’t get up. Too tired. She couldn’t move the needle a hint over, but she couldn’t let it miss that one word or else the earth might misinterpret the point, like being interrupted mid-prayer, and God might be up there trying to get the wrong thing right. Like the room might be getting the wrong idea from either the broken record or the sensitive needle. Who is to say who is to blame? Who is to say anything? Especially over and over again.
posted by holly, putting dead flowers on that grave.