The thoughts of a lonely boy in a big city
The cowbell and the guitar…when you think about these two things you always go to the country. Maybe you see a triangle hanging on the front porch with your grandfather strumming his guitar softly before the sunset. You will think of a farm with a field full of horses and maybe even a cow with its bell ringing as it goes to graze.
Well, that is the perfect image that wasn’t my reality. My thoughts drift to the object that is missing, the paper flower. The cowbell, the guitar, and the paper flower are three things that don’t belong in the country, but in a big city loud and angry.
Inside my tiny apartment, too small for a couch, but big enough for a bed; lays a paper flower. The orange and white petals have turned gray with age and there is always a pile of dust settled on top.
Besides the paper flower on the window seal is a cowbell. It’s not large, but the size of a matchbox car. Below that lays the black and white guitar that is never played. Music never fills my room, this tiny cramped room.
The guitar
This belonged to my sister who died years ago. It is never touched nor played, no one can compare to my sister. The music she played stopped and died. I am left with the instrumental memento. Sometimes I gaze at the six-stringed beauty and see her shadow, her ghost, playing it still.
The cowbell
The oddest trinket that I kept is the little moo-bell that no longer has an owner. It belonged to my cousin Wade who died long ago. He loved bells and always collected them from antique shops. Odd little habit had him. The day he died, the clock struck nine and his body ceased to breathe.
The tiny cowbell bent and rusted was in his pocket when the car crashed. I kept it to remind me of his smile and the last breath I witnessed him take that day.
The paper flower
Alas, the paper flower is dusty and old. This is one of my most prized possessions. In fact, that is why I am here…possession.
You see, I used to live here in the city years ago until the hooded man broke in. There is a tiny drop of blood on this paper flower, that is where my soul went in. I float through this room day in and day out looking at these three things I left behind. Sitting on this window seal, my soul may leave in time.
I sit here staring at the city streets missing all I hold dear. The owners of this flat seem to notice that I am here. They never move the dusty objects from this window pane.
You see, I don’t live in the country. I don’t live at all. I am the paper flower, my hopes my dreams, my soul…my memories…are tied up and kept safe in my little city apartment with no couch and only a bed.
On this window seal, in this room was the last place I laid my head.
In response to the prompt “These Three Things” by Christine Graves
Tas The Artist 
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