Thursday, November 29, 2012
A note on the upcoming solstice
A newly found love for a succinct milieu of literature has caused me to take a step back and view everything I've previously posted on here in a new light. I'm going to try and rework a lot of it and throw out the rubbish.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Cast Iron
This is for Rick
She was the most approachable, open, and forthcoming girl corporality could offer. Veracious to a fault, her uncensored opinions were always painfully precise. And most complimentary was her keen ability to know when to keep her mouth shut. She was a co-worker. I was three years her junior, and she never failed to remind me of the fact.
We'd talked at length on a few occasions, usually while one of us drove the other to work when any given car was in the shop. During these conversations I couldn't help but take to heart the indiscernible manner of voice she always had while talking to just me. Only while talking to just me.
It was borderline offensive.
Her tone was belittling; deprecative to my person, in the way one who knows too much feels safe in assuming that everyone else knows next to nothing by comparison. It was in everything from the way she'd direct me through suburban streets to how she would advise me along paths of life, as if I wasn't in control of the wheel. But her notions were always exacted, so I paid attention. It carried on this way until something she said struck me, and I was finally able to see that her voice was not meant to decry. She went beyond mere honesty; she was sincere. She cared. And in a short time I came to find that voice a source of comfort. She wasn't speaking down to me, ever. She had always been talking to me with the benevolence of a big sister.
She had a boyfriend of more than a few years. She always spoke of him with the most endearing intent, as the rock in her life. And it was plain to see why. He was honest like her. Sincere, like her. All of it in his up-front demeanor. But unlike her, he was the quiet half. He had a reposeful, yet stoic persona. He was the kind of man that parents try to carve their boy into; unreasonably kind and straightforward.
She and he. Two people whose presence always fostered an atmosphere of comfort and warmth, a culture of smiles and laughter with eyes welling in mortal hopes that it could last forever. Together, they stood as a living, breathing testament to the mythical statement, "Love is not dead."
They had spent the last few years of their lives saving for a house -- a haven for just the two of them with their dignified herd of adopted felines and rescued pitbulls.
After fruitless searches, binders of applications, a checkbook's worth of questionable fees, and one day of heavy lifting, the little house was theirs. And after just a few months of "Where the Hell does this go?" they finally had a home to call their own.
And everything was good.
To pay for their life, he took up side work from his boss and odd jobs from clients. She picked up every shift she could grab, ultimately taking up residence at the restaurant where she toiled.
Pulling in so many off-hours, the destined couple rarely spoke anymore. It was practically impossible, what with him waking up before daylight and her getting home only hours before. It eventually became normal, sadly. But it was all part of a routine that would surely lead to some form of mutual happiness. So they worked, holding fast to hope.
She finally had a day off and made a vehement effort to sleep in for as long as possible. The dogs were not hungry yet but they woke her, heedlessly. She took care of the animals and zoned in on the next task: breakfast, served on a plate that was yet to be washed. Immediately, she got busy rolling up her sleeves to grapple the crusty heap of dishes currently fusing themselves together in the sink.
Moments later a creak from the back door pierced the din of clanging porcelain. He was home early -- an event as rare as a precise New England forecast. She knew he was there but barely noticed; they'd been ghosts to each other for months now.
He sauntered in without regard to the hour. Approaching her from just out of view, he gently lay a calloused, gasoline-scented hand on her shoulder,
"Hey. I miss you."
And walked off ephemerally to wash off a day's grime.
It wasn't until that moment that the gravity of where they had arrived hit her. A plate slipped from her soapy grip and shattered into jagged fragments against cast iron.
Hearing the crescendo, he ran to her, half-dressed, in attempt at some sort of rescue. He saw no evidence of injury but long, silvery streaks cascading down her face -- the one he had come too close to forgetting. He knew in an instant that she was alright. They would be alright.
They each stole to the space between the other's arms, filled it with a heavy breath of relief, and carried themselves away from it all.
And for just one day they neglected their home, their myriad occupations, and everything that they'd worked so hard for just to work harder for. All they had was he and she.
She was the most approachable, open, and forthcoming girl corporality could offer. Veracious to a fault, her uncensored opinions were always painfully precise. And most complimentary was her keen ability to know when to keep her mouth shut. She was a co-worker. I was three years her junior, and she never failed to remind me of the fact.
We'd talked at length on a few occasions, usually while one of us drove the other to work when any given car was in the shop. During these conversations I couldn't help but take to heart the indiscernible manner of voice she always had while talking to just me. Only while talking to just me.
It was borderline offensive.
Her tone was belittling; deprecative to my person, in the way one who knows too much feels safe in assuming that everyone else knows next to nothing by comparison. It was in everything from the way she'd direct me through suburban streets to how she would advise me along paths of life, as if I wasn't in control of the wheel. But her notions were always exacted, so I paid attention. It carried on this way until something she said struck me, and I was finally able to see that her voice was not meant to decry. She went beyond mere honesty; she was sincere. She cared. And in a short time I came to find that voice a source of comfort. She wasn't speaking down to me, ever. She had always been talking to me with the benevolence of a big sister.
She had a boyfriend of more than a few years. She always spoke of him with the most endearing intent, as the rock in her life. And it was plain to see why. He was honest like her. Sincere, like her. All of it in his up-front demeanor. But unlike her, he was the quiet half. He had a reposeful, yet stoic persona. He was the kind of man that parents try to carve their boy into; unreasonably kind and straightforward.
She and he. Two people whose presence always fostered an atmosphere of comfort and warmth, a culture of smiles and laughter with eyes welling in mortal hopes that it could last forever. Together, they stood as a living, breathing testament to the mythical statement, "Love is not dead."
They had spent the last few years of their lives saving for a house -- a haven for just the two of them with their dignified herd of adopted felines and rescued pitbulls.
After fruitless searches, binders of applications, a checkbook's worth of questionable fees, and one day of heavy lifting, the little house was theirs. And after just a few months of "Where the Hell does this go?" they finally had a home to call their own.
And everything was good.
To pay for their life, he took up side work from his boss and odd jobs from clients. She picked up every shift she could grab, ultimately taking up residence at the restaurant where she toiled.
Pulling in so many off-hours, the destined couple rarely spoke anymore. It was practically impossible, what with him waking up before daylight and her getting home only hours before. It eventually became normal, sadly. But it was all part of a routine that would surely lead to some form of mutual happiness. So they worked, holding fast to hope.
She finally had a day off and made a vehement effort to sleep in for as long as possible. The dogs were not hungry yet but they woke her, heedlessly. She took care of the animals and zoned in on the next task: breakfast, served on a plate that was yet to be washed. Immediately, she got busy rolling up her sleeves to grapple the crusty heap of dishes currently fusing themselves together in the sink.
Moments later a creak from the back door pierced the din of clanging porcelain. He was home early -- an event as rare as a precise New England forecast. She knew he was there but barely noticed; they'd been ghosts to each other for months now.
He sauntered in without regard to the hour. Approaching her from just out of view, he gently lay a calloused, gasoline-scented hand on her shoulder,
"Hey. I miss you."
And walked off ephemerally to wash off a day's grime.
It wasn't until that moment that the gravity of where they had arrived hit her. A plate slipped from her soapy grip and shattered into jagged fragments against cast iron.
Hearing the crescendo, he ran to her, half-dressed, in attempt at some sort of rescue. He saw no evidence of injury but long, silvery streaks cascading down her face -- the one he had come too close to forgetting. He knew in an instant that she was alright. They would be alright.
They each stole to the space between the other's arms, filled it with a heavy breath of relief, and carried themselves away from it all.
And for just one day they neglected their home, their myriad occupations, and everything that they'd worked so hard for just to work harder for. All they had was he and she.
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