Drabble 163 – Aubade

I’m moving. Not far, but the idea of moving has me thinking about all the things I love about where I live now. The sounds of the birds that live in the marsh. The sunsets. The short bike ride to gorgeous, expansive farmland.

I will miss these things once I’ve moved. There’s plenty I won’t miss, too—bugs, especially mosquitos. The children running out into the road, directly in front of cars. How many people let their dogs run around without leashes.

It’ll be nice to be in a new home, but I don’t know that I’ll ever stop comparing the two. Moving, even setting aside all the physical labor, is hard. I’ll miss my gray walls, my constantly overgrown garden, the stupid hedge that I can never keep trimmed.

Because I’m moving, I’m going to be light on drabbles for a bit. I hope to be back soon, writing from a new house with new memories to be made in it.

Anyway, here’s a drabble.

AUBADE

(n.) from Spanish alba for “dawn”

A song played at, or celebrating, dawn. Also a song of lovers parting at morning.

The guitar’s out of tune and she doesn’t know how to play. She strums it anyway, squinting up at Robin’s window all glazed in rosy dawn light.

Robin doesn’t appear. She pauses and chucks a pebble at the window.

Out comes Robin’s head, brown curls sleep-mussed. “I’m leaving today, Angela.”

“I know. Come on.” She sets the guitar on the hood of her car. “Time’s a-wasting.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Robin’s mouth, and she disappears from the window to appear at the front door. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Angela brushes Robin’s knuckles with her lips. “Never.”