Hector Duarte
Out of My Head and Into the Room
She walks into the empty master bedroom where every afternoon, as the sun comes to rest below the horizon, she likes to play her game of shrinking doors against her favorite walls.
“Alexia? Dinner’s ready,” she hears her mom yell from the kitchen.
The sun casts a rectangle of bright light on the wall closest to the window, about the size of a doorframe, and she stands at the center of it, feeling the sunlight warm on her face. Planting her feet firm on the ground, she stretches her spine and neck to see how far up she can extend without lifting her feet. She counts to nine, the age she’ll be next year.
Then she squats down onto her haunches and walks like a troll to the other wall, boxed slightly further back from the window and imprinted with a smaller rectangle of light, about half the size of her big box. She aligns flat against the wall and extends her arms out to her sides, the palms of her hands anchoring and balancing her.
She looks out the window and then all around her to be sure no part of her head lingers in shadow. This is the fun part, when she sees how long she can sit on this invisible chair before her legs completely go to jelly. The pressure starts just over her knees and then crawls down to her calves.
She shuts her eyes and bites down on her smiling lip and in a few seconds her legs give and her butt bumps the floor. When she opens her eyes, her legs are stretched out in front of her, bathed in the orange hue of dusk.
Alexia stands and stretches her legs to give it another try and sit on her invisible chair for as long as she ever has; before mommy’s new boyfriend Paul comes in tomorrow with his big, brand new furniture and takes away her favorite walls.
“Honey, this is the second time . . .” her mom’s voice calls from the hallway, getting closer now.
She squats down again and immediately feels the strain, but holds on to it and smiles as her legs tremble from side to side – she can hold this pose forever.