|View From The Garden (standard:romance, 684 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Apr 02 2012||Views/Reads: 1519/812||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Life passing, like a balloon on the wind|
Sitting here on the bench, holding my McMartini, (so called because I like to add one part Johnie Walker Black Label to the five parts vodka and one part gin) watching the sun in its last throws, leaving in a splash of tangerine. I've been told you won't truly understand the ocean until you're sinking into it. That's quite prophetic, and I feel a little tipsy, and light hearted, having eaten a good tomato and watermelon salad. There are a lot of things I don't know, yet I write about them, if not as a writer looking for an explanation, then as man wishing he knew more than he did. I wish that we had moved more slowly, taken more time to arrive where we are. Danced and dined more often, learned each other's glances at leisure, taken note how quickly time is passing. The sun completes its journey over and over, why cannot we do the same? “Mr. Frank...you busy?” Speaking of timeliness! “Be right over, Lori.” If Lori were a balloon she'd be found sailing around the world on the trade winds of friendship. “You've always got the gates closed, Mr. Frank.” When I thought there was only the ocean left; having accepted there wouldn't be anyone again, knowing there will always be sea water and sea memories washing into one another, it was easier to lock away the heart; nothing in, nothing out was a comfort not to be taken lightly. “I guess I do, Lori. Here....push...” By April's beginning the waves start to rebuild the beaches they destroyed a season back. “Hold my hand, please.” The two of us, hands bumping, being twisted every which way to fit together but we are pieces of a different jigsaw, different puzzles, and yet somehow we try to make something fit in our lives...even if it's just a hand in hand. “You were thinking about something, I saw you.” “I was...?” “Yes.” Thoughts return broken, splintered, shards of love returning from another universe after being flung far off into space. Fragments that survived, coming back at you speaking of love, or friendship, or what goes with what. Of course we alone know the truth, all the things we leave out, cast aside on a Monday; on Tuesday hurtling down into the Pacific Ocean. “Daydreaming, Lori...just daydreaming...” “Does soda help?” She says, seeing my glass set down on a tree stump. An Innocent question deserves an innocent answer. Johnnie Walker, like sunlight, keeps a light on in one's chest. Keeps it unafraid to meet with the empty dark; brave enough to seek out that never-never place between the petticoat rim and the deeper depths. “Do you like soda, Lori. I can get you one?” “Look, Mr. Frank...look...look...” Her delight is infectious. A balloon still in the sky at sunset, first over the low hills, sails on. I want to shout come down! Have a cup of tea! But the yellow burst of flame sends it soaring over the higher hills, moving toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Look...another...!” Click here to read the rest of this story (28 more lines)
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