Why it seemed different, she could not have explained. Watching the rays of sun as they danced through the leaves, feeling the crisp breeze that told of colder days to come, the day seemed so very ordinary. But in that place inside herself where she kept secrets, she felt the change unfurling. Kind of like looking an animal in the eye and feeling that basic connection. Sort of like knowing a storm is coming even when the sky is blue and cloudless. The same instinct rippled through her, letting her know to be ready. Change is in the air.
catalyst
“Have I lost you?” he asked.
“I was never yours to lose,” she answered. “Not really.”
He wondered how that could be when he had memorized the curve of her face and could decipher at least seven of her smiles.
She shifted in her seat, looking ready to bolt. He was reminded of a racehorse chomping at the bit to get out of the gate. But she was no thoroughbred. She was a very damaged human being. How could she leave?
“Where will you go?” he asked.
She stopped her scanning of the room and looked at him directly. She held his gaze a moment before saying softly, “Does it matter?”
He wanted it to matter. He wished the time they had spent meant something.
“Can’t we just go back and…”
She cut him off. “There’s no going back, just like there’s no taking back the things you said.”
“But don’t you see,” he pleaded, “those vicious words were not for you. I was full of those words before you came along. Those same words brought you to me. You’re helping me pour them out.”
She looked down at the ground.
He almost whispered, “Don’t you want to see how the story ends?”
She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
He crooked a finger under her chin and met her halfway with a kiss.
Gentle. Quiet.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
She wavered for another moment and then said “I can’t let you destroy me.”
“I won’t.”
They stood another moment looking at each other, each realizing they had put their heart in the other ‘s hands. Their heads full of stories, they turned and walked home.
Dusty Dash Surprises
He had this old beat up pickup truck. I don’t remember the color; it was always dusty. I don’t know the make or model; I think it was an old Chevy, but I may be confusing it with the old Don McClean song because I’m pretty sure it made many trips to the dry levy. It looked like a rusty lawn ornament until you got close and saw even though it looked tired, it was ready to go on adventures.
The doors creaked open in protest and I think I fully expected a gnome or troll to pop out, not allowing me entrance since I pictured the vehicle as a magical portal. I was so small then, clambering and climbing just to get in. The cab looked cavernous with it’s oversized dash, mysterious levers and buttons. The radio dials were frozen but you could still pick up a few stations. The seats were crinkly soft like an old couch you’d find along the curb for the trash man. The steering wheel was big like a ship’s wheel which was appropriate I thought since riding felt sort of like sailing- a bit bumpy, noisy. Wind whipping through my hair. It was always exciting and a bit unnerving like an amusement park ride. There weren’t any seat-belts so I spent half the ride aloft, trying to hold on but never finding purchase except if I was lucky and could grab the manual window opener like grabbing the brass ring.
The absolute best part of that truck
without a doubt even in my aging memory was the area above the dash itself. Oh what wondrous surprises! I don’t know how the items stayed and didn’t fly away in the wind but maybe it was the sheer weight and volume.
Aside from maps as you’d expect, you could find Polaroids, matches, rubber bands, screwdrivers, tape, 8 tracks, newspaper clippings, packs of teaberry chewing gum, a comb, handkerchiefs, peanuts, scraps of paper with numbers, notebooks, postcards, pencils, darts, a hammer, guitar picks, nuts and bolts, screws, nails, measuring tape, glue, a magazine, crackers, sketches, paints, and gloves.
The stories I came up with just perusing those items always kept my young mind busy. I can still see the mixed art collage of that truck dash. I can smell the fuel, the teaberry gum, and his clean piney soapy smell. I can see the bright blue of his eyes. I can see his smile. Though I never knew him well, I would have known we were related even if nobody had told me.
I don’t know where he is but that’s OK. We shared enough to finish our story. But I often think of that truck, no doubt crumbling into the ground on some parcel of forgotten neglected farmland. The ride never lasted long enough though. I never finished exploring. I wonder what other surprises were left on that dusty dash.
Take a Walk
My kids roll their eyes as I stop to take yet another picture. This time, it was a dew-drenched spider’s web. “Why do you take so many nature pictures?” they ask. “You must have a million shots of flowers and trees and stuff,” they say in their childhood- approved hyperbole. “You can never have too many pictures of trees,” I tell them. “Why?” they ask earnestly. Before I embark on a soliloquy of why I love the mighty structure of trees and the delicate strength of flowers, I pause, realizing my children may need a gentle reminder of what’s important and beautiful and valuable. Time to put away gadgets and take a walk.
Basically
Studying the curve of her face, following each lock of hair as it brushed her shoulder, he sat quietly and listened.
Learning the patterns of crinkles his eyes made as he smiled, glancing at his strong hand as it rested on the table, she savored a captive audience.
They were made for each other, but didn’t seem to know it. Without instructions, they were a bit lost. With all that’s properly acceptable in the world requiring manuals, people were forgetting how to act upon instinct.
Scent. Flavor. Touch.
The eyes can only behold a modicum of information. What these people need is a firm push out of their heads.
As if shaken from a daydream, she finished her story and smiled. He returned her smile and took her hand. They sat quietly, listening to their hearts.
The Word Rummager 