"The Sentinel of Section 27"

The Sentinel of Section 27
Photo by Tracy Duran
Tracy Duran Collection

As the sun sets, I ready myself to stand guard. My name is William. Sometimes they call me Billy, sometimes Hank, heh. Yeah, when I was a kid, they called me Billy but when I became a soldier, I became William. I straighten my coat and straighten my cap. I don't want to disappoint my commanding officer by not being properly put together. I get my rifle ready for my patrol. The horizon in the distance becomes darker, where the purple of dusk meets the darkness of night. I can smell the moisture in the air, the damp wood of the trees. Tonight is one of many nights when I have stood guard. I don't always get a chance since there are so many to take that turn. Tonight is my night however and I enjoy hearing the silence. The quiet soft velvet of the night.

There used to be a few areas similar to the one I guard but now there are many. Some decide to stick around and see who comes and goes. Others chose to move on. What makes me sad in my heart though are when the kids get lost and come by looking for their fathers or mothers. We try our best to get them together and more times than anything they find each other and move on.

"Hiding"

"Hiding"
photo by Tracy Duran
Tracy Duran Collection

I sit in the closet, hiding from the voices. I cover my ears but I still hear them. The voices seem faint and far away. I don't know what to do. The voices come at night when all I want to do is be myself. Free to go about the house. This old house. The house I made together with my husband. The voices, they keep coming. I don't know where he is. I look out the windows of the cupola to see if he is coming home yet I never see him walk down the lilac lined pathway.

I'm frozen with fear; the voices, they seem to get louder. Who are these voices? Why do they invade my mind? My only solace is to think of the music I used to play on the piano downstairs. Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 was always my favorite to play, as it was his. I would glide my fingers across the keys without a stagger. He would sit in his chair and read his books taking in the music. Now the piano sits in the dark. The books are now dusty. The chair, it sits empty. I sit in this closet, in the dark, thinking of the song while trying to ignore the voices.