I wake to natural light, no sound, not even a clock. Adrift on waves of white linen and down pillows and a burgundy comforter embroidered in gold. Somewhere, a hint of lavender infused with woodsmoke, of plain soap, of the coffee not on my nightstand, of the dampness of cold milk, of the croissant I forgot to order.The poster bed seems larger than it should. Like a jacket a size too big. No matter how I move, hands or legs, back and shoulders, I can't make it fit. Strangely, I feel watched. Four pineappled post, silent sentinels, ramrod straight. Adorned in epaulettes of fruit carved, by hand or machine I cannot tell. Each looking without looking and I wonder of the things they've heard, the sights they've seen, the nights they shook.
From the balcony, light slats the rug and I can tell the sun is not hindered with cloud. And the thought occurs that the sun will do its work alone and for reasons hard to explain, I find some comfort in the thought, some desire to walk the beach and feel that solitary touch of warmth on this winter day. I can also see what I did not see last night. Upon the balcony. Two chairs.
They were there last night as I drank and imbibed Puccini, allowing myself the luxury of an indulgence I'd not had in France. I suppose in the same way the bill for whiskey comes in the morning, not the night. And what I had drowned in the dusk, and cast to the wind of an ocean night, would not be denied in the harshness of a sun long at work. This room was meant for two. A place for lovers. A retreat from the ordinary, from the machinery of commerce, where breakfast came on a tray and juice was squeezed and robes were thick, luxurious, and hung by twos. Belts tied round tiny invisible waists with collars rich as pelt splayed upon rosewood hangers. He is not here. He will never be here. I cannot state the fact more clearly.
I slip a robe over my bare skin. Poke the fireplace. Turn a chair to the french doors. And begin to write, all that I can remember, every detail, no matter how small. His name was Virgil. Immediately, I draw a line through these words as I had drawn breath at their sight. I begin again. His name is Virgil. I stop. Hold the pen across my lips. Let those four works soak into my morning, in my memory. And I am the widow that never was. The maid never married. And I hold a story within my heart without an audience. My burden is my own.
7 comments:
Your burden is universal though, to own our own stories, to place the solitary heart beating down between the lines and let the bloody pulp of it soak the page to beautiful tragedy.
Beautifully said ConverseMomma. Thank you for the rose upon my pillow, the warm tea on my nightstand, the rub of a shoulder tired in the day's labor.
O Dear, that seems familiar...
Tree, I hope you are doing well! How is the father of the bride feeling? Its just a few days away, isn't it!
(((HUGS)))
Mona, ready to get this operation done and over. A little too much drama for my taste. :-)
Nice to see you stopping by. Hope and trust you are well. :-)
(a quart of a)Here is everything unfolded in the finest detail that in the post below was infered, the scent has been named, the forms drawn, I plain adore the sentence about whiskey. Plain adore the image too. This glorious post placed along side the one that came before accentuates the span, the limitless albeit span of your abilities. So enthralled, always, anew, now, increasingly.
Thank you Ms Storm. Your presence here is always a blessing.
There is many a home video out there, a child unwraps a present and the glee is so consuming, one can only term it a fit of excitement. That is what I feel like reading just the very first paragraph of this post. The absolute excitement can only be tamed by the task that immediately follows, namely writing a comment, and then only ever so slightly, seldom enough to anything other than an elongated, dizzy wow. I just plain love the opening paragraph (love the accompanying image too btw). Writing like this is wherefrom the first blossoms of adoration began, for the english language, for literature. So creatively fertile, it reads like a bouquet of wildflowers, a harmony of scent and colour, varied and complementary. In paragraphs like these, we distinguish natural from learned, innovation from familiar, visionary from mainstream. Like the infectious smile, your passion for words unleashes an answering passion within the reader. This is a passage that evokes such a deep respect and admiration for the creativity of the writer and one stands in awe of the process filled an empty page with such artistry.
And I smile to read the second paragraph once more in order to comment for I know upon reading it that the entire post will evoke sentiments that echo one another though I take a paragraph at a time. Such a joy to read for so many reasons, to observe the inventiveness within firstly, for the same reasons as above, but I do so love the language within this part. The 'simple' simile (jacket), simple used in the most favourable sense, the conveyance as direct as can be, it makes me think of true beauty that needs no adornment, to add would only be to take away. Excellent. And what treats follow, the glorious Four pineappled post, silent sentinels, ramrod straight. Adorned in epaulettes of fruit carved, by hand or machine I cannot tell. This part anchors the desire to hear the post read for just reading aloud to oneself the sounds, as one follows the other, are so utterly delectable, to hear them read by the writer would without a doubt be something indeed.
It is for the third paragraph, the expressiveness within and surrounding 'hindered' and 'alone' that this post was and will be remembered well. The discerning command that you display so prominently here, to leave such an enthralling landscape for your readers to explore is the mark of true genius. Just brilliant! Like a stick of incense lit, left to roam and linger, the aroma chosen and left only to be recognized.
Bless your heart for imbibed Puccini, two words combined that surely would be a long way down the line for those Shakespeare typing monkeys and for I suppose in the same way the bill for whiskey comes in the morning, not the night., what else to say, so I stand and bestow hearty applause. I quote merely the first part what I had drowned in the dusk, and cast to the wind of an ocean night, would not be denied in the harshness of a sun long at work but I include the rest as tears well, not just the first time, not just this time, but every time that I read this passage. So moving, so beautifully written, so wow.
The last follows the ones before, equal in influence, in poignancy, in expressiveness, beyond wonderful through and through.
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