Unthreading the reports. A map, a voice, commentary. Faces seen once, the screen glows, gutters out like a flame. There’s no electricity today. Shredded map, jumbled words. An image distorted. It could have been a child’s face or a woman’s. When the current is restored, it won’t be there. Glittering screen moving on against other information, other shots of strangers. The incompleteness is unsettling. I could have been there, with them, at that time. Or is everything erased—the sound, the sight, the hammering insistence of words? Under the light something does persist. A slight whispering, an almost imperceptible trembling, the muted pulsing of blood flowing through veins. Flickering at the window. Someone driving by. It’s night again, lights striking the windows. The faintest echo of a voice. It could be a child’s or a woman’s. Darker and darker. Insistent, nearer and nearer. Someone at the door, in the room with me. Am I dreaming away the silence, threading electrons on an invisible line? When the current is restored, not a trace. Not a shadow on the wall, nor the soft glow of a face passing by the window.
Andrea Moorhead
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