When Johnny Comes Marching Home
I stir slowly as I distantly hear his boots at the door, stamping the snow off. "Johnny's home!" he cries, and I waken fully. I take stock of where I am: sitting at my vanity, combs and curlers and rings and necklaces strewn a bit haphazardly. I blink slowly and listen to his footfalls in the downstairs hall. "I'm hungry! Did you make me something good?"
Johnny is home! I'm not prepared. I'm not ready and what will he think? I stand, slowly, because I cannot feel my feet. How long have I been sitting here in a stupor? I bring my hand to my face. My skin is dreadfully pale, nearly translucent. I turn toward the door and head for the stairs.
"Hello-o! Where are you? I'm hungry!" The boots are THUMPING now, loud. I feel a chill in my soul, the old fear of his impatience and anger. I want to run, but falling down the stairs (again) won't serve me well. I glide down the staircase, hand hovering above the banister. I imagine him in the kitchen, his gray uniform, home from the War. And hungry! What can I make him quickly? I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right, toward the kitchen. I enter the kitchen, his name on my lips, "Johnny.. "
But there in the kitchen is a small boy wearing unthinkably bright colors. His curly hair pokes out from under a bright red knit cap with strange white ovals lined in black and black lines that look like webs. He looks at me and his mouth and eyes become small round o's. Then the O's widen rapidly and he screams.
In that very moment, I feel something tugging at me. Like I've come to the end of an elastic tether, I am suddenly flying back up the stairs, back to the vanity. I am back at my seat, staring with a vacant expression at my non-existent reflection.
Wrong Johnny.
(Again.)