Up To Their Birth, Shooting Like Stars

(A work in progress.)

The morning light caused me to stir, but I awoke with a feeling of peace. The thick curtains, hanging by an iron rod, brush the wooden floor as a gentle breeze comes in through the open window. Their fiber, the color of heavy cream, mutes the light, allowing me to pass through the world of dreams into reality with ease.

I close my eyes and stretch my legs, turning over so I am facing you. You smell like sleep, sweet and calming. I can smell it on your skin, milky in the shadows of morning. When you exhale, I smell it on your breath. I marvel at your eyelids, a thin film of skin and lilac veins embracing the pearl of your eye. Your eyes see a place far away from me. The one place you will go that I will follow.

The old quilt had fallen away in the darkness, and I pull it back up around our bare shoulders now. Its pinks have turned to whites, it’s yellows to grays. Worn thin from sleeping generations, its little stitches have become strangling threads. I bury my nose into the soft fabric and think of home.

I let my head stay enveloped in the white pillow and let my mind get lost in the white vastness of the ceiling. Time slips away down through the cracks in the floor. My train of thought saunters with the seagulls in the harbor. I can hear them in their flight, threading between dock posts and sailboat masts. The distant foghorn is the steady beat behind their rhythmic calls. I know that a layer of fog is covering where the land meets the sea. But not here. Here, there is light.

I see your feet stir under the folds of the quilt from the corner of my eye. I am warmed by the heat of your skin as you draw me close to your bare chest, gently kissing my hair, and in an instant, I am brought back.

My head rises and falls as you take your first breath.

“Need to go into town today. Running low on wire, need to pick up a few more lures. And my prescription.”

My silence is my concession. The haze of the morning’s magic slowly begins to break as you sigh these first words. The light seems harsher now and my muscles begin to feel restless. No longer does everything seem to fit together quite as well. Silent harmony falls to soft cacophony.

I roll out of your arms and let my legs swing over the side of the bed. On the nightstand is a stack of books, upon that, my teacup from the night before. I take it now and drink up what little tea is left at the bottom, cold and grainy in my mouth. The liquid leaves a ring, stained along the inside, marking where one day ended and the next began. What has been and what now is.

I place the teacup back on my tattered copy of a compilation of poetry entitled “What You Are Thinking But Cannot Say”. Next to that, an open notebook, with the single line written in blue ink,

“up to their birth, shooting like stars”

I must have woken up after a dream and instinctively grabbed the pen. It was becoming a habit. It was rare that I could recall a dream in the first place, but if I did, I struggled to find a connection between the hazy content the remained in my memory and the few words on the paper. It was as if they appeared by magic.

The grandfather clock down the hall chimed 7:00, beckoning us to get out of bed and begin the day.

I shivered as I let my bare feet drop to the cold wooden floor. Quickly, I grab my sweater, two sizes two big, limp at the foot of the bed, and pull it over my head.

“When will you be back?”

You sit up in the bed, rubbing your eyes.

“Before dark. The fog is supposed to roll in heavy at dusk. Want to try and beat it.”

I nod, searching under the covers for the pair of socks I was wearing the night before. When I find them, balled up and inside out, I sit on your side of the bed to pull them on.

“Please. Make sure you call the harbormaster too. Make sure there is a slip for you.”

Now it is your turn to nod as you slowly make your way out from under the quilt. You sit on the side of the bed with you head in your hands. I turn and run my fingers through your mangled head of hair and kissed the top of your head.

“I know.”

I pad across the bedroom floor and down the hall into the kitchen. We tell people we bought this house for the kitchen. It was exactly what we always wanted; old hardwood floors, a small marble island, a large bay window encompassing our kitchen table. The bay window leads right up to the boulders that make up the escarpment leading down to the water. At night, the beam of the lighthouse sweeps across the table and through the kitchen.

I ski over the wood floor in my socks to the table, covered with a red -and-white-checkered tablecloth. In the center was a single daisy in a Mason jar. We usually only kept two chairs at the table. That was all we really needed.

Like almost every morning, you cannot see out the window past the escarpment. Dense fog covers the shore and sea like a weightless blanket. The horizon is nonexistent. Only the first few rays of sunlight are beginning to break through.

Noises commence. The soft cacophony of our mornings. The faucet in the kitchen squeals as I fill the coffee pot, the sink in the bathroom where you keep your toothbrush echoes down the hall. Ceramic clatters as I bring two plates, two cups, and two mugs down from the shelves. Silverware clangs. The radio in our bedroom hums, perpetually streaming advertisements and heart-breaking news. Refrigerator bangs. Coffee pot rumbles. Orange juice gurgles as it hits hollow glass. Toaster pops. Knife chops. A sneeze. A yawn. A sniffle. Knife scraping against toast, spreading strawberry jam.

The radio is switched off. I hear you walk down the hall, into the kitchen. I turn from my work and grin. You walk over to the counter and place my dirty teacup in the sink. You pick up the coffee pot, still rumbling and gurgling and steaming. No longer do you smell like sleep, but like soap. This smell has corners, edges. It awakens my senses. I know, though, that as the day goes on, these corners will soften again, beaten down by other scents of life, like the sea and the fish and the coffee you now pour into the mugs. When you come home tonight, you will just smell like you.

            “Time to eat.”

            We carry over the mugs and the glasses and the silverware. Two plates holding toast with strawberry jam. A bowl of strawberries and chopped bananas. A tiny blue pitcher of cream. A tiny jar of sugar with a tiny spoon. We sit down. As I reached for the cream, I catch you looking at me, smiling.

            The fog has almost completely cleared now. You can see the water over the escarpment and catch just a sliver of sea. The water in the morning is beautiful, the way the soft yellows and pinks of the rising sun cause the waves to glimmer the way stars do in a cloudless sky. I can see a few sailboats now, just leisurely meandering. It isn’t very windy. The American flag hanging from the back porch was lifeless.

            “You’ll have an easy trip,” I say as I pour the cream into my mug.

You nod, gazing out at the water, munching on toast. I can see crumbs caught in the stubble on your chin. You take a long drink of orange juice without removing your gaze.

“Beautiful day. Tides are timed just right. Just pray the fog doesn’t roll in too soon.”

I stir the cream with a long silver spoon, the white mixing with the black, a liquidly yin-yang settling into that beautiful shade I see every morning.

When the plates are empty and all that is left at the bottom of our mugs is cold, forgotten grounds, it is time for you to go. I scrape scraps off dishes as you lace up your boots. I rinse the dishes in the sink as you shrug into your tough field coat, the one lined with soft red plaid.

You slap your palms to your knees and rub your hands together.

“Time to go.”

We walk out to the porch, pushing open the glass door, pulling open the screen. I push the glass door as far as it can go, placing the hook nailed to the back of the door to the loop nailed to the side of the house. You let the screen door slam behind us. I take off my socks and leave them in a lump on the doorstep.

Now the sun is well on its way. As we walk out of the shadows and down the porch steps, I can feel its warmth on my neck. The narrow path that leads to the edge of the escarpment is lined with hydrangea bushes, big, round flowers flecked with every shade of blue and purple possible. You can hear the hum of the bumblebees as they attack and retreat the nectar of the buds.

Standing on the very edge of the escarpment, you can see either end of the island, the points where the shore turns to touch the other side. Small waves lap upon the sand. Boats rock back and forth on their moorings. Sail clips clang to the masts. Clumps of seagulls bob up and down in the waves, silently, sleepily. Long, wispy clouds stretch high across the sky. They seem to curve above me, winding paths along a limitless dome of blue expanse.

There’s that line from “White Fang” you love to quote, “sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles realizes he is a maggot’s life no more.”

            The wooden stairs that sit in the side of the sandy cliff creak under our weight (or just you and your boots). We trudge across the sand, soft and cool between my toes as I place each foot inside the imprint of your boot. Standing on the dock, you can see the down to the bottom of the water. Along the sandy floor, shadows dance as schools of minnows frantically dart back and forth. On the surface, a dozen little boats bumped and tottered together as one unit. Some rubber, some wooden, some with motors, some with oars, each attached by a dirty rope, all tied to a single clamp. Ours is a red dingy, only big enough to hold two adults, possibly two and a child. Its rope is a bit longer than the others, so it tends lingers in the back of group. It smells like low tide.

            You reach down and rub your thumb softly along the back of my hand, interlocking fingers.

            “See you later?”

            You smile and lean down for a kiss. You brush a stray hair behind my ear, and then you are gone.

            Stepping off the dock, you balance yourself in the closest boat, then using each boat as a stepping-stone, you make your way over to the red dingy. You settle onto your knees and lean over the bow. I bend down to untie the attached rope and toss it into your outstretched hands, setting you free.

Our Buried Golden Years

Old words, new accompaniment.

“He was a great man.” That’s what they all said, over and over again, as they shyly exchanged conversation between sips of champagne in old, fragile glasses.

            “Ebony was just such a great man. Wasn’t that old either. I guess the good always die young, huh?”

            This was their safe talk, the buffer zone in the postmortem eulogy. They weren’t offending anyone, they weren’t bringing back a surge of memories that would break down some newly constructed damn which held back a loved ones tears- they were simply telling the truth. They were telling what they knew.

            Outside the wind howled and rattled the shutters. It was as if the world was suddenly a hallow, abandoned place without him. The noise outside overpowered the hushed whispers of the mourners, and Tabitha continuingly found herself listening to the wind instead. The past weeks had taken a toll on her. Not necessarily the energy needed to put the funeral and reception together, but the pain of coming home to an empty bed every night- that was what took the most from her.

            Two and half hours later, Tabitha sat on the couch alone in her small, outdated living room. The grieving family and close friends had finally left when they were sure she no longer needed that imperative human touch that those need when they lament for their loss, and that now she just wanted to be left in personal solitude. A mass of empty glasses crowded the counter next to the kitchen sink. No one had offered to help wash them.

            The wind shrieked erratically, while, in contrast, the grandfather clock ticked of the passing seconds. Tabitha rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. On the mantel stood a little tin box, rustic looking, but polished. Ebony had left a will, stating very clearly that he wished to be cremated. But that was all he had demanded. And now, looking at that tiny enclosed box, Tabitha had a feeling that that was not where he belonged. She stood up, cupped the box in her palms, and walked outside into the wind, letting the screen door slam behind her.

            In the far corner of the yard stood a massive apple tree. Its trunk was thick and sturdy, with deep grooves that swirled in every which way. The branches had grown sturdy and anchored, proof of many years of climbing and hanging and swinging. From the braches sprouted embryonic apple buds, surrounded by a sea of transparent green leaves that seemed to reach out at every possible angle. Its colossal presence pronounced itself extremely against the surrounding brush and planted flowers, but like a grandfather, it did not overpower- it simply protected.

            Tabitha stood under the tree, and looked up at the austere, gray sky revealed between the leaves, frantic with the winds touch. Then, she took a deep breath, opened the box, gathered a handful of Ebony in her hand, and tossed him into the air. The ashes were carried up by the wind, and then settled between the bulging roots, stretching along the frozen grass.

            A burden had been graciously lifted off her back. Everything was finally at peace, because he had found his place. He belonged with his tree; dwelling in the surrounding soil as its fuel to feed it, help it, to let it grow. Ebony was now not dead, but very much alive, still living to serve those he loved.

            Is a gust of wind ever the same as one before? Do they travel the world, wherever a windstorm is called for, or do they stay close and return to the same places? Only science could prove such a theory, but sometimes our hearts make more sense than reason. That day, Tabitha knew it was the same wind, for the song in the branches was exactly identical to that of a day 56 years ago.

            Ebony and Tabitha lay on their backs, staring up at the quivering leaves and the maze of their veins that the bright sun illuminated. They listened to the music.

            Fingers intertwined, Ebony absentmindedly let his free hand graze over the diamond on Tabitha’s left. She smiled, and turned her head to meet his eyes. Her beauty was seen by his eyes, and perceived through his mind, spreading like smoke through his blood until it settled in his heart, causing it to stutter. His mind felt thick, his skin burned an embarrassing shade of red.

            “My gem,” he whispered. He couldn’t help but smile at his words.

            Tabitha’s eyes were small- to small to hold all the heavy stories they had lived. And too often, they could not carry the weight any longer, and they overflowed, trickling drops of the saddest brown Ebony had ever seen.

            Above her left eye was a thin ribbon of as scar that ran from the side of her head to the corner of her eye. It only brought pain and excruciating remorse for Ebony to look at those eyes, for it is said that eyes are our connection to our pasts. Her past was nothing but undeserved suffering, a Job-like story- one with an uncontrollable whirlwind of pure evil only the Devil himself could do so directly and deliberately. And Ebony was too late.

            That was what ran through his mind that night, like a frantic bird captured in a cage. I’m to late, I’m too late, I’m too late. It was sheer luck that he happened to see her limp body in the ravine, just by the dim light of the street lamp. He followed the ambulance to the hospital and patiently waited hours until could go into the room to see her. “Love at first sight” did not apply to them. When he saw her for the first time, bandages covering her head, a brace on her wrist, dark swollen eyes, he simply saw another human being- one that had been seriously abused and mistreated.

            She was so quiet at first, only offering a few blunt responses to Ebony’s constant chatter to fill the awkward silence. He came back to sit by her bedside every night- first out of civic good will, but then turning into absolute personal desire- and he began to look forward everyday to their innocent meetings under the florescent lights of the hospital room.

            Every time Tabitha opened her mouth, which she began to slowly do more, a calloused layer of her internal world fell away, as well as a bandage, or a shade of fear that painted her face. Ebony gradually began to uncover her enigmatic being, though how she ended up in the ravine that night was still a mystery to him, even after the two weeks he had spent with her.

            One night, they laughed together at some comment now forgotten. Their laughter dyed down, leaving the hum of the radiator to hang in the silence.

            Ebony could not take the anticipation any longer. He believed if he didn’t ask now, he never would be able too.

            “Why are you here, Tabitha?”

            The question did not seem to faze her, as if she had known he was going to ask it all along.

            “Why should I tell you? I hardly know you. You are only a stranger to me.”

            “Well,” Ebony replied with a smirk, “I guess we’ll have to work on that.”

            Then, Tabitha told him her story, as flatly and stoically as humanly possible,

No words had ever hurt Ebony more in his entire lifetime, never caused such a build up of emotional rage to strangle with his own hands the man who could have done such a thing, such a heartache of sorrow for what this girl must live with for the rest of her life, resentment and omniscient shame.

How was he to respond? No human words could possibly express his thoughts, no words could possibly take away her pain and provide the comfort and serenity she needed. So instead, he gently but undoubtedly leaned across the bed to kiss her.

From that day forth, Tabitha believed those lips were the work of some divine figure, forever pure and sacred, crafted perfectly to be in flawless sync with hers. Never did she really know how many others pairs of lips they had met before they arrived at hers.

For a summer in college, Ebony had the privilege to travel to England and shadow art historian, Martin Kemp. Ebony had recently declared a major in Art History and took his potential career with great seriousness. For two months, he lived with Martin in his 19^th century mansion, settled in the quiet of country right outside the city. Vines crawled up the crumbling stonewalls, and the interior was furnished with the finest British antiques. Accommodating servants were always available to meet Ebony’s every wish.

The basement was Martin’s workspace. A door was hidden in the living room, disguised as a bookshelf, which led to a flight of stairs, and then finally to another door with an alarm system, and a padlock that only responded to Martin’s thumbprint. He was a detective historian. Eager collectors and art dealers from all around the world sent him anonymous paintings they had come across to see if Martin could detect their original creator.

Their summer project was a 13x9 canvas, with the painting of a young girl’s profile, her skin translucent and hair tied in a long braid down her back. They called her “La Bella Principessa”-The Beautiful Princess. Martin strongly believed it could possibly be the work of Leonardo Divinci himself; an idea which put the entire household in excited spirits. For hours at a time, Ebony followed Martin’s lead; hunched over a canvas with a microscope, analyzing brush strokes, paint samples, and hidden finger prints.

Ebony was a good student and a fast learner. As long as the sun shone, he eagerly worked in Martin’s footsteps, doing whatever he could to uncover the great secret of this ancient piece of art. But he was still a kid- a boy not yet even 20.- young and oblivious to most of the world. Martin’s home was only a train ride away from the eye of the pulsing city, and at night, the kid inside Ebony emerged to have some personal fun and enjoyment.

Every night after a four-course meal with Martin, Ebony would slip away from the world of Divinci’s princess, and go to find his own among the neon illuminated side streets of London.  His ID (professionally and expensively copied) was his ticket to endless possibilities after a day of work.

Once Ebony had a few drinks, he would usually find someone to his liking. Blurred with alcohol, his mind became dysfunctional, yet his senses carried on, sharper than ever. He would hear the vibrations of the music, smell the overpowering smoke rising from mirrors, and sweat that reeked of booze, see the face of his current princess for 20 ₤, feel the skin and protruding bones, taste the lips so often tasting like an apple- but too sweet to be genuine, to be the best.

The best apple Ebony had ever tasted came right from his very own backyard. He was 15, yet till the day he died, his mouth still help the perfect memory of that piece of fruit, as if he had just bitten it that very second. The color was the ultimate color of a Gala, a blend of pale reds and yellows, grown to perfection by his own labor. The skin was tart between his teeth, but the fruit itself was both crunchy and juicy- a paradoxical sensation only the very best apple can achieve.

Juice dripped from the corners of his mouth, and he greedily licked his lips, making sure to savor every drop. He sat on the lush grass and rested his head against the maturing trunk of the apple tree. Through the open windows of the house, he could hear the voices inside, deep in some argument of who-did-what and why-can’t-you-do-this. He tried to tune out their voices by instead think of sweet taste on his tongue, and of baseball cards and football games…

There was a football on the kitchen table. He wasn’t sure why it was there, or who even walked into the kitchen with it. But he remembered tracing the lace over and over again with his fat, toddler finger while his mother made lunch. She came over and sat next to him, placing a plate with a PB&J sandwich on the table. As he hungrily nibbled at the bread, avoiding the crust, his mother asked,

“Do you want to know a secret?”

Suddenly very curious by such a suggestion, Ebony nodded enthusiastically, forgetting all about his lunch. His mother brought a ripe apple and a knife to the table, and cut the apple in half, making quite a show of it.

“See what is hidden inside? Can you see the flower in the seeds?”

Ebony smiled in delight, having seemed to have just discovered one of the greatest mysteries of life itself. Indeed, the tiny brown spots formed the shape of a flower.

His mother removed one of the seeds, and pressed it into his palm. Even in comparison to his undeveloped hand, the seed still appeared amazingly tiny and fragile.

“If this seed is buried in the ground, someday it will grow into something much bigger and more beautiful for everyone to see,” she explained.

He could not understand. He could not see how a wrinkled brown seed could someday be beautiful, and could be seen by every person if it was under the ground. Even in his hand, it was smaller than his own thumbnail. Yet still, Ebony had that relying faith a child holds to their parents, and he somehow believed her word.

His mother took the seed and held it between her thumb and pointer finger, right at his eye level.

“Like buried treasure, it is most valuable when it is buried beneath the earth. Do you want to see?”

Ebony still didn’t understand what she was trying to say. But, he was now very curious, and wanted to experience for himself what his mother described. So he took her hand and followed her into the far corner of the backyard, to see what wonder could possibly surface.

                                                                                                                  2010