Chase Howell

St. Catherine's Home for Lost Souls

I woke up to the sound of the Mourning Dove song. A simple question from that soft breasted bird: who. . . who. . . who. I don’t answer back, they already know me. Even though it’s only early morning the room is already glowing with light. It’s a small humble place with walls and ceiling of smooth white stucco, and the bed sheets I lay in are made of crisp white cotton. To my left is an old oak door that leads to the hall, and to the left of the door is an old oak wardrobe with all my possessions. At the foot of my bed below a thin window, rests a small pine desk with a chair. To the left of the desk is a door-less doorway leading to the balcony. To the left of the balcony doorway is a porcelain sink with a small pocket mirror sitting on the windowsill above. If anyone else had just woke up in this room they might have mistaken it as a little cell in Heaven.