Liminality
By Amanda Vannierop
My life: stretched out and tiled, a hallway in
an office building that probably houses accountants
or consultants. I never learned how to do my taxes.
Fluorescent lights flicker. The carpet is stained.
Before graduation we were huddled in a hall.
Teachers ran around making sure our caps were on right
and girls hugged each other and tried not to sob
and outside: our parents and the rest of our lives.
Now here, in this hall, waiting. It reminds me of
a two hour layover I had once. I wandered the
white corridors of the airport and felt stupid for
crying when I had already left home by miles.
People pass me by. And somewhere on a floor
above or below, I hear the click of door handles.
My life: stretched out and tiled, a hallway in
an office building that probably houses accountants
or consultants. I never learned how to do my taxes.
Fluorescent lights flicker. The carpet is stained.
Before graduation we were huddled in a hall.
Teachers ran around making sure our caps were on right
and girls hugged each other and tried not to sob
and outside: our parents and the rest of our lives.
Now here, in this hall, waiting. It reminds me of
a two hour layover I had once. I wandered the
white corridors of the airport and felt stupid for
crying when I had already left home by miles.
People pass me by. And somewhere on a floor
above or below, I hear the click of door handles.