Given the inspiration gleened from these pictures, a [url=http://www.tblog.com/template...]wink and a nod [/url] hardly seems enough. (Sorry I'm a bit late getting here.)
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He took the small, black notebook out of his pocket, and held it flat in the palm of his hand. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel its soft cover mold itself around the tips of his fingers, as though the shape and curve of his hand alone contained the secret password needed to open it. He lifted his tattered hat and let the breeze run its fingers through his unruly curls before placing it back on his head. Nearby, he could hear the reeds knock together nervously, like boys and girls at a school dance.
Blinking in the daylight, he noted that the wind had turned open the cover. A crooked smile pushed its way to the edges of his mouth, and he could almost hear her voice, “it’s fate, love” she’d have said with a giggle. His eyes wandered to the empty space next to him, half expecting to see her sprawled there ~ her head resting on his leg, her hair splayed across the length of his thigh and spilling onto the earth beneath them. It was in these moments especially that he found himself secretly wondering about the people who might stumble upon his notebook, tucked away in some hidden attic box, in the days and weeks following his own death. These private imaginings were never melancholy or morose; rather they filled him with a sense of completion somehow ~ as though in the passing of these things the people who loved him most might finally know him.
He flipped through the pages of the notebook, the flutter of fleeting images creating an animated story of who he was, until finally he landed on a blank page. He waited for the paper to whisper to him, as it always did, quietly revealing what it wanted. Meanwhile, in the expanse just beyond the little clump of grass where he sat, he heard the trees rustle like muted wind chimes, but there was something in the sound at that moment that made him look up: something a little too measured about the way the branches touched one another. Something a little too much like the sound of footsteps rather than that of clapping. In the distance, he could see the clouds bend in to kiss the land. Just then, something in the reeds moved.
He held very still.
“I hope you’ve warned her about you,” his mother had said leaning towards him, her shadow spanning the length of the room. All his life he’d struggled with people: the way their shrill voices cut into the warm flesh of an afternoon. The way their feet trampled over the secret messages left on abandoned scraps of paper; and the way their arms flailed about when they spoke, as though deep down they knew, as he did, that their words alone were not worth listening to. Like the forgotten silhouette of the younger brother in a boy’s first Cub Scout photograph, he’d learned to stand just beyond the focus of the lens, lost in the peripheral detail, both dreading and longing to be seen. He sighed quietly; He’d tried to warn her, but somehow, she already knew.
A few speckled rain drops announced themselves on the brim of his hat, but he refused to look up to see if there was a waiting deluge. Rather, his eyes remained focused on the sea of reeds and tall grass that greeted him like a lingering army. Each elegant blade swayed gently in the breeze, and yet, every so often, he could see little pockets of their brushed helmets jump suddenly, jolted not by the wind but by the passing of something hidden in their ranks. An animal, he thought in quiet bemusement, startled by his presence at first, but now screwing up its courage to come forward and take a look.
He remembered the first time she’d shown him her own notebook, full of scribbles and notes and bits of cheese. He’d noticed the way her hands shook a little as she asked him to forgive her for the lined paper ~ her constant training wheels. She’d blushed and tried to look away, but in the end found herself needing to see his face as he glimpsed this part of her for the first time. “There’s a story in us,” she’d said afterwards with eyes that were both hopeful and more than a little sad. She was right.
Just ahead of him the reeds began to part, and the shadows trapped by the densely clumped grass quietly leaked into the daylight. For a moment, nothing happened. He cocked his head a little, waiting. Then ~ gradually ~ a small hand extended from within the green gray darkness, its palm facing the sky. Pale and fragile, he could almost imagine its owner closing her eyes as the open air met her skin for perhaps the first time. Slowly, each delicate finger began to curl inward, as though guarding the secret treasure of a found pebble or a coin discovered heads-side up, until finally only the index finger remained straight ~ pointing at him. He watched in silence until at last it too began to curl gently, and repeatedly, beckoning him to come. For a long moment he did nothing.
If I'd been Jenny Green we'd have pedaled to the place where the trees smell different and the wet streets sound strange against our tires. We'd ride until the rain drove us back and our mothers called us home.
And maybe, your field would've been ours and after sandwiches in paper bags we'd search the skies for faces and you'd teach me the names of birds. Later, you'd pick the parsley from my hair and we'd each make a wish before blowing brown lashes into the breeze.
If I'd been Jenny Green I'd have climbed your garden wall, slipped past the eager goalie and run up the stairs to your room where I'd hear bells. Afterwards, you'd take my hand and we'd jump ~ out your open window.
And maybe, my island would become ours and we'd mark the passing of midnights with the pleasure of promises fulfilled. Until, at last, all that remained would be us conjoined and complete in flesh, stone and wood. No less whole than the circle 'round your finger. No less beautiful than if I'd been Jenny Green.
