“Leave me a moment, a kiss at the altar of the sea.
Find me a stone to remember.”
~ salt and sand
There is necessary sadness attached to rain
It reminds us to feel
The roses in my garden have toppled
Birds seek shelter within the deepest branches of the forest
Everything beautiful bows to sudden summer rain
“You will paint again.”
I place the canvas on the easel that stands near the window where the light shines through. The brushes are grouped like soldiers on guard. I imagine their sense of urgency. Time is passing and they wait, forgotten lovers, yearning for paint to kiss. It is more than creative lust. They will protect and reclaim her soul.
“You will paint once more. There is still time.”
~ Jacqueline’s Solitude
“I loved him.
It was simple. I placed my heart in his hands and like a gentle thief, he stole it.”
Hands on is always good. Pinterest is full of cook- less Play Dough recipes. Elevate everything. I added lemon essential oil and sea salt to this batch. You’ll imagine you’re in a lemon grove (beside an ocean) even if you’re not. Enchant ‘The Littles’.
NoteToSelf: Always cover your counter space with parchment paper to protect the surface.
Meet me beneath the cloudless moon
On the path where the end begins
Make time stand still
Tell me again
all the beautiful and the terrible
Words carried by the wind
Forgive me as I turn, hands shaking
And cast off the dust of you
Arsenic, lead, silver, and bone
Did you know? The use of an x signifies a kiss. This symbol dates back to medieval times. A letter would be kissed to mean honesty and sincerity.
One of my fondest memories is a book, Dick Whittington and His Cat. My father handed it to me. Inside the jacket was his signature. Next to the signature was a line: xxxxx.
A lone gull circled in the distance. There is something sacred about seagulls, stars, and salt. It was here, on a dock, beneath a midnight sky that I contemplated life. It was the alter where I came to worship the notion of ‘more’.
My presence was unexpected. I glanced at my watch. It was too early for him to be home.
He stared as if confronting a ghost.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”
“I finished early.’
We stand frozen in position on concrete. Me, holding a textbook and purse. Him, a suitcase.
I ask, “Going somewhere?”
“I’ll be in touch.” The car door slams.
The Chevy shifts into reverse and backs up the driveway. Wheels catch at the steep part of the grade. His foot pushes hard onto the accelerator. The Impala leaps the rise.
I chase him, run to the top of the hill, watch as the tail lights fade, the car a blur in the distance. Once I realize that I can not stop him, that he isn’t turning back, I return to the house. Opening the door to his cupboard, I notice one suit remains. I take this as a sign of hope.
The scent of tobacco lingers. I ease the jacket from the hanger and bury my face into the sleeve. I let tears wet the wool.
This isn’t the story I share with Margaret. Instead I tell her I have just this morning, broken up with a guy. It isn’t exactly truth however it allows me to feel less defeated. I can’t speak of Roy. It would be too chancy.
Margaret wields the teapot. She allows me to wallow in grief. When one cup empties, she pours another. This is the code of women, the luxury of holding space for one another. Or as my mother might say of the sisters, “the polite pause before they bury the body.”
There is no doubt. Margaret is in charge of our discussion. She raises her pinky and turns to her sister. “Good riddance, I say.” Both women nod in agreement.
“Chin up, dearie,” sister says. “March on.”
A certain shabbiness rumbles deceit and rheumy eyes are evidence. Sister’s eyes mirror too many surrenders, too much disappointment. Margaret’s are resolute. Yet, both women offer up saucers of hope as they perch and trill like skylarks on a branch.
For a moment, I wonder. When did he become someone else? Was it before his trip or after? My eyes narrow as I scan the past for clues. What was it he had said as the potatoes were set upon the table?
He had said, “Feels like we only go backwards, baby.”
He has cheapened himself. I notice the golden horn dangling about his neck. His fitted shirt is made of fortrel. The collar splays open. He’d look good in a rainstorm.
A rustle carries me home to the present. Sister stands and places her hand upon my shoulder. Fingers press as she speaks.
“All good things end, child.”
I had thought we were the exception…
~ Excerpt From the Scene: Roy Splits