03-23-2009, 10:08 AM
I don't like this one so much, but my friend read it and told me to put it online so I did. I dunno, -shrug-, what do you think?
Every one day in twenty-four, the clouds fall out of the sky.
These are the days when thick fog fills the area, blocking out everything thirty
feet away or farther. These are the days when travellers, afraid and confused,
stumble awkwardly to our front doors and as for directions, only to wind up
staying at our houses until the skies revert to a clear blue and the roads can be
seen once more. When the world takes on the colour of snow-covered moss, and
when the lake takes on the illusion of glass. When loons are never seen flying
above the trees, when boats are never heard chugging along the cool waters,
and when the smell of freshly baked bread never drifts along to neighbours, for
who can do those things in fog? These are the days when our world, wild and
beautiful, reverts to a calm silence so thick you can slice it through with a knife.
Long ago, you and I would take these days as a chance turn away from the
mindful words of our elders and instead scamper along the rocky lakeside like
mice.
Many times, I would hear you say to me, “Step lightly, step fast. Should we fall, it
could be the end of us.” In which case I would look down and inspect the sheet
of glass that sat so far below us, gently kissing the edges of the cliff where it met
the shore. I did not want to fall.
Later we would stray from the shores of the lake and instead wander into the
forests, searching carefully for any of the folk that might be running around. You
always spoke of the way they loved the fog and how it could conceal them nearly
as well as they could conceal themselves. We could never find them, but I guess
that makes a right amount of sense, doesn’t it? Instead, we found proof of their
work. (Cows’ tails tied together, farm gates opened, doors ajar, window locked
to tightly, etc.)
I always listened well to you and remained mindful of your orders, but so many
times I found myself longing for the warmth of a wool blanket and soothing tea,
things you described as needless fineries. Like the times when we’d fetch the raft
from under the house and float out to see, never quite sure where we’d end up.
Or the times that we’d simply walk to the broken house and sit on the cold stone
floor, picking apples from the tiny tree that stood there. And even the times that
you pulled me through the marshy areas to watch the waterfall, amazed at the
way the fog gave it the illusion of falling out of the sky. I treasured these
moments, yes, but I was always longing for home. I guess I was just too much of
a city girl for that kind of thing.
But then, you disappeared.
Every one day in twenty-four, the clouds fall out of the sky. The world turns the
colour of snow-covered moss, the lake takes on the illusion glass, travellers,
spend the night, loons rest on the waters, boats sit calmly in the boathouses,
and bread dough remains uncooked. But you are not here.
No longer do I run up and down the shores, no longer do I float out into
nothingness and find myself amazingly lost, no longer do I stand below the
waterfall and watch as it erupts from the sky, no longer do I search the hills and
mounds for folk that I shall never find, for I do not have to, for you are not here. I
sit at home under a blanket, sipping the warm tea and watching reruns of stupid
sitcoms made years ago on my black and white, 6” screen television. And, I know,
you would not approve.
But I tell you this, it is not my choice.
Oh how I long to run across the cold stone barefoot, and oh how I long to
wander in the seemingly endless forest. But I cannot do that, you are not here,
and these are the days when I remember you the most. The mist takes on the
flow of your dress, the rocks the feel of your skin. The glassy water looks like the
glass of your charming necklace whilst the small fish below the surface look like
the shine on your bracelet. When I listen to the loons, I hear your laugh. When I
look at the cattails, I see your hair. The apple tree in the broken house smells of
your perfume and the broken house itself reeks of your memory. I cannot go
outside on these days, for you are always there, always reminding me of days I
didn’t appreciate enough, and I cannot stand to face you.
That’s not what you’d want though, is it?
No, you’d want me to run. You’d want me to dance across the islands that not
hold your name and sing along with the loons as they sing your song (even
though we both know well that I cannot sing for my life). You’d want me to do all
this and more, for you’d know that it’s what I truly want to do myself. You’d want
me to brave your memory. And thus I shall, for I want to do that as well. In fact, I
will go further. I will not sing along with the loons as they sing of you, but instead
sing of you myself, and spread the word. I will go to the broken house and take
every apple, even the tree limbs themselves, and travel home to make a pie to
give to the folk as a peace offering (I hear they like that kind of thing). I will spin
myself across the dusty islands and leave my footprints in the sand, always
making sure to spell out my name and yours, for we were there. This world was
yours, and in your departure, I take it upon myself for you have given it to me.
And since you have given it to me, I will give it to the next person.
For every one day in twenty-four, the clouds fall out of the sky. And every one
day in twenty-four, I am there to catch them.
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