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View From The Garden (standard:romance, 645 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Mar 20 2012Views/Reads: 1464/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Day to day we do not know what will inspire us, maybe the sun's rising, getting out of bed the right side, or a note that helps to start over, start over what we already know and believe.

Standing here, cup of tea in hand, this hemisphere's first radiance
lights the belly of a sea fog as the waves come ashore soft and 
shallow, bringing everything but answers. A low mournful hum, an 
ancient fugue composed for a hobo sailor, emanates from Point Reyes and 
spreads beyond the shore's craggy coastline. I'm thankful for my jacket 
this early morn, bolstered warmth, with my hands squeezed around the 
mug. What is it that makes waves turn and begin all over again? 

“Mr. me, will you?” 

I set my mug on the bench and walk toward the gate. Together we widen
the entrance. 

“You're up early this morning, Lori.” 

Her wild strawberry hair, the crinkle in her eyes, breath that would
awake azaleas from a cold snap, her child strength, and her gentleness 
on any given day. How I welcome her friendship. 

“Hold my hand...” Such a thing, I wonder. To hold a child's hand. 

Standing there, reaching, she looks momentarily alone. Not complete. 

“Your hand is so warm, Mr. Frank.” I apply a small amount of pressure,
tightening the warmth. 

Be on the lookout for the strength in people, their gentleness and how
they smile - on any given day or throughout a lifetime, be on the 
lookout. Complete them. 

As we walk toward the bench I cannot but wonder where she lays her head?
What brings her to the edge of the ocean; to this universe I call 

“What are you thinking about today, Mr. Frank?” She asks, skipping into
my lap, looking into my eyes as though she were adult. 

“ and other grown up things.” I respond,
covering her hands gently around the mug of tea. 

“That sounds big!” 

“I suppose it is,” I respond, pulling a woolly scarf from my jacket
pocket and looping it around her neck, twice. 

Life is full of contradiction. Marriage has rendered this man unique,
virtuous and wise - so would thirty years living in a monastery. If I 
have regrets or feel inadequate, it comes from quarrels of my own 
making. It is easy enough to see the truth of beach trash; a rubber 
sandal, kelp aplenty, cans, plastic containers, but with imagination 
and belief, with someone's spoken friendship and gratitude, then these 
too carry every kind of treasure to its edge. Such gifts from those we 
know, love, or befriend, allow me to trade back the worst part of 

“I'm your friend, Mr. Frank.” 

“Yes, Lori. No matter what chilly wind blows, I'll be safe from storms
with you by my side.” 

You have to get up early, almost anywhere along the California coastline
to find the best shells. 

Another friend told me: To know love and beauty, a man must first reside
in its midst. Words that bring me back, accountable, refreshed. This is 
new again, I like it. 

“I better be going now, Mr. Frank.” She says, removing the scarf and
wrapping it around my neck, twice, before slipping from my lap. 

“Where will you go today, Lori?” 

“Beyond the trees, following the foghorn's blow, passed all those times
I've had to tell what kind of world lies ahead to those still sailing 
the seas; those who have all but forgotten my name.” 

Together we pull open the gate wide. 

“Someone called you Lori?” I venture, watching her disappear from my
conscious thought. 

“Why, Mr. Frank, you did! Love, Ocean, Radiance and Imagination” She
answers, not turning. 

In the overtones of her voice I hear a startling maturity and, for a
moment, a vision of an older Lori; older than teenager, and in her 
hands and voice she holds a courage and a confidence, the courage to 
believe in the resilience of life, and the confidence to barrel 
forward, her imagination more indestructible than love. Has she 
invented me just to be unbearably full, euphoric, and miraculously 


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