When we had returned to the
cottage, I invited him to sit with me on the porch. Restlessly, he sank into the carved oak rocking chair. He was a metronome; he was a clock, the once marvelous mechanism now wound too tight.
"Breathe," I said. And I joined him in following my own command.
Beautiful. Late afternoon, the sun was discovering some other land. The light was forgiveness. The darkness was doubt. The palm trees up the hill were raking the sunlight out of the sky. Threads of air and ocean, water and land, were conjuring up the vaporous ribbons that would decorate the setting sun.
"I am tired, thirsty." The rocker stopped. Hands on knees, he remained unsettled. The trembling of his hands seemed almost musical, a drum roll, anticipated applause. "This was a good place," he tried to say..."This was a good place to return to." The tumultuous jungle was cascading away from us, running wild down the steep incline. The bright green tentacles were stretching, striving, reaching for the naked sand, the sapphire sea, reaching for the brave self, the one that will not drown.
Awkwardly, he pushed himself up. He found his balance looking out to the clouds that were materializing out of the horizon. "Its lovely," I said. Was his silence agreement? He steadied himself.
Standing, he was a giant and the grey in his beard became luminous silver. The kind and curious hunger that beset his blue eyes had drained away, but he was smiling, vaguely. His voice rumbled like one of those distant thunderheads. "Sunset," he said, definitively. With effort but not with struggle, he crossed the threshold and the screen door slipped closed behind him. Then the breezes began to tickle the chimes and rattle the shutters. The linen of my shirt and trousers invited the soft air to touch my starving skin. I wanted to go in the cabin and lay with him. I didn't know how long I should wait.
The sun had tumbled behind the red bluffs and the sky started its transmutation. The subtle shifts in color and light mesmerized me and for a moment I forgot... everything. I always wanted the biggest box of crayons. I remembered how we used to iron the wax shavings between two sheets of wax paper and call it art. It was, I suppose. Judging by the light, I would guess that forty-five minutes had passed, almost an hour.
"Breathe," I said. And I joined him in following my own command.
Beautiful. Late afternoon, the sun was discovering some other land. The light was forgiveness. The darkness was doubt. The palm trees up the hill were raking the sunlight out of the sky. Threads of air and ocean, water and land, were conjuring up the vaporous ribbons that would decorate the setting sun.
"I am tired, thirsty." The rocker stopped. Hands on knees, he remained unsettled. The trembling of his hands seemed almost musical, a drum roll, anticipated applause. "This was a good place," he tried to say..."This was a good place to return to." The tumultuous jungle was cascading away from us, running wild down the steep incline. The bright green tentacles were stretching, striving, reaching for the naked sand, the sapphire sea, reaching for the brave self, the one that will not drown.
Awkwardly, he pushed himself up. He found his balance looking out to the clouds that were materializing out of the horizon. "Its lovely," I said. Was his silence agreement? He steadied himself.
Standing, he was a giant and the grey in his beard became luminous silver. The kind and curious hunger that beset his blue eyes had drained away, but he was smiling, vaguely. His voice rumbled like one of those distant thunderheads. "Sunset," he said, definitively. With effort but not with struggle, he crossed the threshold and the screen door slipped closed behind him. Then the breezes began to tickle the chimes and rattle the shutters. The linen of my shirt and trousers invited the soft air to touch my starving skin. I wanted to go in the cabin and lay with him. I didn't know how long I should wait.
The sun had tumbled behind the red bluffs and the sky started its transmutation. The subtle shifts in color and light mesmerized me and for a moment I forgot... everything. I always wanted the biggest box of crayons. I remembered how we used to iron the wax shavings between two sheets of wax paper and call it art. It was, I suppose. Judging by the light, I would guess that forty-five minutes had passed, almost an hour.
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