Thursday, August 18, 2011

Making Conversation

Most conversations are simply monologues delivered in the presence of a witness.
~Margaret Millar

My name is George.
I'm from Nigeria.
I'm an accountant.
Or at least I want to be one. Here, sitting on this plane, winging my way to Kansas City. A job lingers in the horizon as the plane dips lower.
New scenes. New people. New everything.
These are what I need. I've been living in Greensboro for six years now, and I need to get out. Change of pace. New page in my book. That sort of thing.
Years ago I left my native land. Or was it yesterday? It seems that way. Only 15 as I set out from the only home that I had ever known. Mother. Stepfather. Siblings. Left behind. Not forgotten. Especially one.
My friend. My brother. So young to take that journey. That journey that shouldn't be taken till gray sets in. So young to be taken. It seemed sudden, gone in an instant. A shudder. A day passes. He is gone. Never to be punched, laughed at, teased, protected. My friend. My brother. Never to be loved again...
I've forgotten. Or tried. I have his picture here. A glance everyday... I laugh. Books. Let's talk of books.
The Picture of Dorian Gray. Grabbed me in an instant. Have you read it?