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View From The Garden (standard:romance, 684 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Apr 02 2012Views/Reads: 1553/835Story 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 

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. 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...?” 


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. 


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