Curtain Portraiture

Curtain Portraiture (or— do squirrels have knees?)

The blue curtain next to my desk swishes on a creaky rod as time ticks away— It is currently four twenty-five on an empty November afternoon and I think I feel horribly fine. My mother is painting a squirrel in the next room, and he crouches as though he will jump out from the canvas on his wobbly, wobbly knees.

Do squirrels have knees? I’m not exactly sure.

A particularly large gust of wind blows in, and I catch a glimpse of the world as the curtain swings to the left. The air passes through the tiny gaps of window-mesh and nudges my fingers, urging me to start writing.

Outside, the tardy clouds roll with a sort of pre-sunset vivacity and the wisps of grass sway vaguely still saturated; crisp leaves dot the ground, dry orange. The curtain swings back, and I try to focus on derivatives.

Key word: try.

Soon, the curtain billows open again, letting the last streaks of light in. It is precisely four forty-two, the exact predicted time for today’s sunset. Autumn sunsets are somehow more vivid, as if they feel an innate need to make up for the melancholia that is decidedly seasonal. The sky dances a swirl of piercing orange and violet.

A squirrel scampers away in the distance. He is too far away for me to accurately discern his possession of knees.

The sky is painted completely indigo at exactly four fifty-three. I mourn the loss of another day, and decide to put in my final hours of productivity.

The curtain continues its incessant swishing, leaving ever-changing portraits of my front yard in its wake.