The Cottage

By Michael Rawlings

Light flutters in the just-dusted window, shimmering on the maroon sofa and warming the plump cushions. An orange cat stretches in the heat and lies down, purring slightly. Dirt-dusted paws. Soil trickling on the windowsill. Five potted plants soaking in the sun’s rays. A whirring sound comes from the kitchen. Someone’s using the blender; bowl full of fruit from the lush garden right outside. Strawberries. Peaches. Milk from the cow, Lucy. She’s still asleep; it’s only 6:53am. The only one’s up and about at this time are the chickens. Eleven chickens. Each lay eggs almost daily, an excellent breakfast for the two of them. He finishes the smoothie and sits at the table, newspaper in hand. He checks his watch. Five minutes. He closes his eyes and gives thanks for his blessings. Four minutes. Lucy awakes, rustling outside, and the chickens scatter to give her room to roam. The sheep begin to wake as well. Three minutes. Birds sing from outside, their melodies calming the air and soothing the soul. A light breeze flows through the open back door. A goose wanders into the living room. It’s their goose; no stranger to the morn. Two minutes. His smoothie’s almost gone now. He rises from the chair and places a piece of bread in the toaster. One minute. Soft footsteps from the floor above make their way to the stairs, punctual as ever. Thud. Thud. Thud. The feet descend. The bread leaps from the toaster with a sharp crack, filling the morning air with the delightful scent of toast. 7:00am.

Michael Rawlings is a creative writing student in Utah, hoping to publish the many poems he has written about the woes and joys of life as a 22-year old gay man. For him, poetry is a way to release the emotions he often finds trapped behind closeted doors, itching for a way out into the world. ‘The Cottage’ is a prose poem about what life could someday be like once the judgments and insecurities of the early twenties have passed, leaving him open to finally be himself.