The Quiet Painter
There once was a quiet painter who worked in silence blind to those who lived just steps from his door. He lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere, without big dreams, he toiled away in solitude hoping to find meaning in his work. The painter was proud of his home as he knew of nothing more special then his little town. Some would call it quaint, others would say it was boring but for his taste, Red Creek was perfect. In Red Creek even a man of no words could find stature among the community of tight knit family orientated residents. Nestled in a valley at the foot of White Mountain, Red Creek defined the term small town. The white shingled general store stood at the end of Warren Street as the beacon for the townspeople. It also served as the post office, the clothing store and as the center of excitement for its residents. At the top of the creaky steps leading to the entrance is where you would find the men of Red Creek engaged in conversation. They spoke slowly about everything from fishing, to the way things use to be and of course politics. Yes politics, especially when the mayor tinkered with hunting season. Never before was there such uproar as when the mayor decided to shorten hunting season by two days. Needless to say he was quickly run out of town along with his foreign politics. The mayor, Mitchell Johnston, was the first imported mayor of Red Creek and not that it has to be said he would be the last.
Red Creek was a town of tradition founded by two farmers who wandered off track over two hundred years ago in search of fertile lands. They quickly took to the glistening red lake along with its fertile surroundings. So without much debate the two men along with their families began construction on two small homes just feet from the river where the general store now stands. As the months passed the town slowly grew into a town of twenty families. The general store was not built until many years later but the store remains in the hands of a few descendants of the original settlers. Since then not much has changed, even as the population has grown to just under a thousand. The values of Red Creek have remained figuratively etched in every aspect of its daily life and a few have remained etched in less then opportune places. Sometimes when attending the Friday night dances, I can hear the founding fathers laughing in the passing wind. Back a hundred or even two hundred years ago they probably sat around the roaring fire avoiding their wives much like the men of Red Creek do today. Like I said earlier not much has changed over the past few hundred years.
Aside from the general store the town boasts about twelve businesses including the red shingled hair salon followed by the white shingled café. The café serves breakfast on weekdays and brunch on the weekends along with lunch seven days a week. If you live in Red Creek and have the desire for a night out that included dinner, you have to drive about twenty minutes before you run across the first restaurant. If you’re planning on passing through, take my advice and keep going about another fifteen minutes as the first restaurant will leave you hungry for a good meal. Red Creek is a town of twelve roads that seems even smaller then it is when you pass bye on your way to wherever you mean to go. The number one tourist attraction as well as the only gas station stands at the south end of Thompson Avenue. With the exception of the gas station every other business stands on Warren Street or on the corner of some adjacent road to Warren Street. The theory goes that the town’s fore-fathers built the fuel station on the outskirts of town just off of the main highway to keep outsiders passing bye. They sought to keep the jewel of the town, the red creek, undisturbed for the townspeople to enjoy. The red creek runs just behind the old general store where it remains lost in its shadow. Red Creek is for the most part misnamed, as the creek is more of a lake then an actually creek. In the summer the creek sits quietly inviting the town to its banks every Saturday and Sunday for community events. In the early fall the river runs to its lowest levels until the rainy season quenches its thirst much like a parent looking after a child would. By Christmas the creek slows again as the cold mountain winds help to freeze the water over providing a large ice skating rink for the kids. Christmas also provides an opportunity for the townspeople to decorate the banks of the creek in a wonderland of color. Tradition demanded the town show its appreciation for the river so every Christmas eve the whole town gathers for a set of carols just before sunset. With the river aglow in Christmas cheer the town begins its celebration of Christmas together as one family. For those passing by, Red Creek is a town of small dreams, small thoughts and small thinkers. Red Creek is a community within a town so small that local maps barely recognize its existence. But to the residents of Red Creek being small was an honor reserved for the select few to enjoy. We may have remained non-existent without the story of the quiet painter who transformed our small town into a wonderland of color.
To most the quiet painter seemed like every other quiet man, invisible to anyone who ever met him. Some of his story will never be known as he along with his mother moved into Red Creek some four years after his birth. As the story is known, he was born mute even unable to cry as a child he grew up in complete silence. His father unable to handle his son shortcomings left the family before his second birthday for another woman and another son. The family could not support themselves in the big city so they moved into our city at the opposite end of Warren Street. Red Creek offered them a chance for a new life among a family of distant strangers willing to accept even the most unique of people. The light gray shingled ranch that the family purchased from the Franklins marked the end of the town even though Red Creek stretched another twenty miles. His mother, Grace, was a beautiful young woman who caught the eye of many suitors. Even so she kept to herself attending to the needs of her son like any caring mother would. Grace chose to shield him from the community introducing him only to those who spoke to him first. She would introduce him with a shyness trying to keep his ‘special’ situation quiet. Joshua was a small boy in stature and he remained upon the coattails of his mother while she tended to her everyday chores. The quiet painter quickly became part of the community along with his quiet way. Even in a school of just under two hundred children, he seemed to fade into the crowd. Grace would not let him attend regular classes instead she schooled him at home in mathematics, history and English. He did however attend school events along with physical education and enrichment classes such as art. Nobody truly knew him but still he had a presence sitting quietly in the back of the class. When he began attending school we quickly came to know of his name as his teachers would call out in waiting for him to respond. Joshua, the quiet painter, would be marked absent at the beginning of every term for at least two weeks. At least until his teachers came to know of his special situation.
From the back of his abbreviated classes he grew from a quiet child into a quiet teenager. From the back of the class he noticed everything especially the beautiful, young maiden Laura Billings. Her flowing red hair and her cute smile were enough to catch a young boy’s attention as she strutted by with her walk. Some of us noticed his affection for her, when she entered the room the quiet boy found the time to smile. When it came to art class, he found joy in his work especially in painting portraits of Laura. His teacher knew of his affections for Laura, but Ms. Johnson never displayed them for the class. Amazed by his flair for painting she gave them to Grace to keep in hope she would encourage his talent. Grace though chose to keep his work private along with his talent and affection for Laura. Hoping to shield him from heartache, Grace started to display his work throughout the house. She encouraged him to continue for an audience of one as with every completed work Joshua was rewarded with a hug along with a special diner. Soon the house was to full of his paintings, so she slowed his work to one painting every other month. In school he excelled in every subject even those he did not find all that interesting. Joshua, the quiet painter, graduated at the top of his class but his absent speech kept him from being valedictorian. Instead the honor went to Laura who spoke very eloquently about life, her hopes and of her dreams. Soon after, Laura left for college leaving Joshua absent of his inspiration, his admiration and his desire.
With Joshua growth from a boy into a young man, he developed a presence about him. Joshua never spoke a word but his smile spoke volumes to those whom he crossed paths with. Just after his graduation, Grace got her son a job at the general store three days a week overseeing the register where he quickly out grew his job. In fact they allowed him to do just about every job in the town at one point of another with the exception of hair cutting. As I said before, Joshua had a presence about him wherever he went so the town quickly adopted him as their own. In fact Joshua became some popular amongst the towns folk that he could not leave the house without returning with a pie. Some believed it was his rugged good looks that made him so desirable, others believed it was his sweet smile but for my part I believe he just knew how to listen. See its very easy to speak with someone when they have no way of disagreeing with you or even the desire to get in a word. Joshua would just sit back with an attentive ear and a smile that made you believe he was listening. As far as Grace, some say she was a lonely bitter woman who never truly moved on from her divorce. Come to think of it I think it was more the men who she rejected who truly believed she had developed into a bitter woman. Others thought she was a great woman who put her son’s needs ahead of even her own. No matter tragedy struck the town when Grace passed away from a heart attack at the young age of only forty-four. Joshua at the young age of nineteen had lost his father, his ability to speak and now his mother had passed ever so suddenly. During the funeral proceedings, the town held vigil at the general store to keep Joshua from being overwhelmed. The townsfolk cooked in the morning, provided lunch for all of the mourners and even served dinner in between services. Grace even in her death provided for her sons well being as she had arranged for a guardianship for him. Her biggest fear is that her son Joshua would slowly receded from the town into a reclusive state of being. Grace arranged for Ms. Johnson, his favorite teacher, to keep watch over him from a distance. Grace hoped that her son had grown enough to keep his home in order without the everyday encouragement of a custodial mother. Before her death, Grace took care of her son by investing his earnings as well as her money in insurance for them. So with her death the quiet man was allowed to grieve silently in his own home with the exception of a visiting Ms. Johnson.
Around the same time Laura returned home with her beautiful smile and a husband standing politely at her side. Jim Trent stood a striking six-foot-four with a golden smile complimenting his rugged good looks. He stood out like an old oak tree would in a forest of smaller pine trees. Along with his overwhelming presence he had a personality that demanded attention no matter where he went. Her reappearance struck the quiet painter with a dagger through his grieving heart. Through everything his affection for Laura had not wavered nor had his affections lessened with her departure. In fact the mere mention of her name bought a smile to his timid face. Laura’s return only amplified his loss as he would sit quietly peeking from within his soul at her oblivious motions. Unable to speak, unable to cry, he quickly began to seclude himself from the outside world further into in his home where he painted from morning to night. He painted quietly throughout the day only venturing out for supplies or some fresh air from time to time. By this point he had full developed into a man of stature standing just short of six feet, with long black hair and a thick beard to match. His striking blue eyes complimented his rugged looks with a touch of soft depth. By my count he walked the length of the town twice a day stopping to notice anything out of the ordinary if only for a moment. Sitting in my rocker on my creaky porch I always wondered what he was looking for as he would glance at you with a studying eye peering through you with attentiveness. Returning home he never sat on his porch or toiled in his gardens like most of the towns people. Instead he paid a local boy to keep his lawn short, his flowers tall and his weeds from overwhelming his plants.
Like any city or town Red Creek had its share of problems behind closed doors. The difference in Red Creek was that our problems were handled in our own way outside of the press or the eye of the town. The town had only two policemen and one of them served as a crossing guard for the schoolhouse nestled on the corner of creek road. For the most part we had need for only one of them as Red Creek was a town absent of mischief, even though we had are share of clowns. Misguided youths were turned over to their parents for guidance through appropriate discipline. From the naïve eye the town was a picture of complete tranquility with the exception of the occasionally rowdy square dancing festival. The quiet painter saw things in a much different light though, for his perspective was one of attentive eye. How could a man find pleasure in traveling within the elements especially in a blinding snowstorm or a driving rain? Joshua never missed a day of travel even if the day called for a rest. Without much contact we studied each other from a distance not much more then twenty or thirty feet. His eyes spoke his greeting along with a small grin that popped up as he passed by without much of any fanfare. Day after day he wandered the streets sometimes in the middle of the night when only the sound of his shuffling feet could be heard throughout the town. The quiet walker took in every sight, even those that we could not see. Returning home, as we would later find out, he took in those moments like any artist would but choose to recreate them in his work. He saw beauty in the simplest of things as a tiny collection of raindrops could inspire at least a days worth of work. He would pause to notice things feet from where I sit know writing this story that I could never find the time or desire to recognize. Joshua would study my flowerbeds for seedlings, blossoms and even the morning dew. Ms. Johnson would pass by my porch every three days like clockwork on her way to visit the Joshua. She would return the same route only with a smile bigger then her previous which always begged the question why?
Tragedy struck the life of the quiet painter again in the fall of 1996 when Ms. Johnson passed away peacefully in her sleep. Ms. Johnson served as the only real human contact for the quiet painter so her lose was especially hard on him. He along with the rest of the town took vigil in her home during the funeral except the quiet painter remained behind while most others had found their way home. Joshua remained behind in support of Phillip; Ms. Johnson only son, as the two found common ground in their love for her. Phillip and Joshua had met at Grace’s funeral a few years earlier. Phillip had moved to a bigger city just after high school some twenty or so years ago. He had a love for Red Creek within his heart but found Red creek unsuitable for his dreams. So he moved east in hopes of landing a job in law enforcement but returned year after year to bask in the tranquility. After Grace’s funeral Phillip took Joshua under his wing much like a older brother would, celebrating the quiet painter’s talent with every visit home. Philip did not speak of the quiet painters work to anyone not even his family who came into town for the funeral. Keeping his promise to his mom he kept the work quiet in appreciation for his mothers as well as Grace’s wishes. Philip stayed for about three weeks after his mother’s death following her same path just about every other day past my porch. Just like his mother he to returned home, with a smile bigger then the one he passed by with begging the question why?
As for me I remained seated on my rocking chair collecting my thoughts alone waiting to join my Eleanor in heaven. Eleanor had left me in the spring of 1993 at the young age of eighty three in her sleep while I slept next to her. When I woke she seemed so peaceful sleeping next to me almost like an angel she laid there looking back at me. It took me four hours to call the doctor as I knew she was already gone. Some cry, others laugh but for me I just sat there in quiet, amazed by her beauty. Kissing her lips for the last time she smiled back at me even though most would say that was impossible. There is never a day that passes that I do not miss her but Red Creek made her lose a little easier. The town adopted me like so many others giving me life beyond my grief. Now sitting here on my porch my days are filled with the bustle the town provides for an eighty something year old man.
With the death of Ms. Johnson the quiet painter began to journey out more often solely for human contact. He began to walk the length of the town four or five times a day with his studying eye guiding his feet. Some six months after the passing of Ms. Johnson the quiet painter stumbled upon my steps with a smile hoping for an invitation. The young man politely sat next to me in silence while I sipped away at my afternoon tea. Sitting there with him I wondered what had taken him so long if all he wanted was a seat next to me on my porch? We did this for about week, he sitting in silence next to me while I drank in silence next to him. Sometime within the second week of us sitting I began to speak of my memories of Eleanor not knowing if anything I was saying actually entertained him. Like a polite young man he smiled at every word, he even nodded from time to time. Within an hour or so he would excuse himself so he could continue his journey around the town. At my age my eyes may miss a few important details once in a while but even I noticed his walked slowed everytime he passed Laura’s new home. Her husband purchased the home of Ms. Johnson from her son Philip before he left. Laura had her first child two months after they moved into the white shingled ranch decorated in rose beds. The roses caught Joshua’s eye along with Laura’s smile that greeted him when she cared to notice him strolling by. The months past in earnest as the quiet painter visited with me almost daily sitting beside me in quiet. He may have thought me to be naïve as my porch sat in sight of Laura’s gardens where his attention remained focused. No matter his intentions we or at least I found his presence stimulating enough to fix him a cup of tea prior to his arrival.
With the coming of the fall of 1997 everything seemed to be status quo as the town was decorated in apple pies, colorful leaves and the school bell had its fall ring back. Even the kids were once again hustling past my porch hoping to be late even though they were hustling. Fall happened to be my favorite time of year as the afternoons were even more peaceful with the kids nestled away in the schoolhouse. My new friend still stopped by for his afternoon visit even though Laura’s gardening became more of a hobby then routine. She began to remain secluded more often then not keeping the quiet painter waiting in earnest for a quick glimpse. Her absence meant more time for me to reminisce about my Eleanor which in turn meant more of my new friend nodding in approval. By early November the frustrated, quiet painter had begun to seclude himself within his home which in turn made him even quieter then before. From time to time he would wander by but his steps were quicker with more determination in them. Soon I became the observing one as his light would stay on long past the midnight hour. He would wake at the crack of dawn logging just a few hours sleep at night. With a hushed quiet my observing eyes continued to log his hours in a journal kept quietly in my mind. Just like Grace, and Ms. Johnson my quiet way kept his secret hushed even though I truly had no idea.
The twelfth of December has no true significance to most anyone but to me the twelfth of December has special meaning. We, Eleanor and I, were married on the twelfth of December all the way back in 1937. Surrounded by family and a few close friends we exchanged vows under a moonlight sky at the strike of seven her favorite time of day. Eleanor always loved the moments after diner when we settled on the couch satisfied enough to say nothing. She would hold my hand with her gentle touch comforting me after a large meal. When I woke on the twelfth of December in 1997 I had no idea what was about to happen nor could I know what it was going to do to me. Naïve to the world around me I settled into my old, dirty recliner to watch some television. The recliner sat in the corner of my living room which also overlooked the front porch. Settled in it took me a few hours to notice the plain wrapped package that sat upon my wood swing just outside my door.
final update will be posted in a few days _____________________________________________________________________________
Red Creek was a town of tradition founded by two farmers who wandered off track over two hundred years ago in search of fertile lands. They quickly took to the glistening red lake along with its fertile surroundings. So without much debate the two men along with their families began construction on two small homes just feet from the river where the general store now stands. As the months passed the town slowly grew into a town of twenty families. The general store was not built until many years later but the store remains in the hands of a few descendants of the original settlers. Since then not much has changed, even as the population has grown to just under a thousand. The values of Red Creek have remained figuratively etched in every aspect of its daily life and a few have remained etched in less then opportune places. Sometimes when attending the Friday night dances, I can hear the founding fathers laughing in the passing wind. Back a hundred or even two hundred years ago they probably sat around the roaring fire avoiding their wives much like the men of Red Creek do today. Like I said earlier not much has changed over the past few hundred years.
Aside from the general store the town boasts about twelve businesses including the red shingled hair salon followed by the white shingled café. The café serves breakfast on weekdays and brunch on the weekends along with lunch seven days a week. If you live in Red Creek and have the desire for a night out that included dinner, you have to drive about twenty minutes before you run across the first restaurant. If you’re planning on passing through, take my advice and keep going about another fifteen minutes as the first restaurant will leave you hungry for a good meal. Red Creek is a town of twelve roads that seems even smaller then it is when you pass bye on your way to wherever you mean to go. The number one tourist attraction as well as the only gas station stands at the south end of Thompson Avenue. With the exception of the gas station every other business stands on Warren Street or on the corner of some adjacent road to Warren Street. The theory goes that the town’s fore-fathers built the fuel station on the outskirts of town just off of the main highway to keep outsiders passing bye. They sought to keep the jewel of the town, the red creek, undisturbed for the townspeople to enjoy. The red creek runs just behind the old general store where it remains lost in its shadow. Red Creek is for the most part misnamed, as the creek is more of a lake then an actually creek. In the summer the creek sits quietly inviting the town to its banks every Saturday and Sunday for community events. In the early fall the river runs to its lowest levels until the rainy season quenches its thirst much like a parent looking after a child would. By Christmas the creek slows again as the cold mountain winds help to freeze the water over providing a large ice skating rink for the kids. Christmas also provides an opportunity for the townspeople to decorate the banks of the creek in a wonderland of color. Tradition demanded the town show its appreciation for the river so every Christmas eve the whole town gathers for a set of carols just before sunset. With the river aglow in Christmas cheer the town begins its celebration of Christmas together as one family. For those passing by, Red Creek is a town of small dreams, small thoughts and small thinkers. Red Creek is a community within a town so small that local maps barely recognize its existence. But to the residents of Red Creek being small was an honor reserved for the select few to enjoy. We may have remained non-existent without the story of the quiet painter who transformed our small town into a wonderland of color.
To most the quiet painter seemed like every other quiet man, invisible to anyone who ever met him. Some of his story will never be known as he along with his mother moved into Red Creek some four years after his birth. As the story is known, he was born mute even unable to cry as a child he grew up in complete silence. His father unable to handle his son shortcomings left the family before his second birthday for another woman and another son. The family could not support themselves in the big city so they moved into our city at the opposite end of Warren Street. Red Creek offered them a chance for a new life among a family of distant strangers willing to accept even the most unique of people. The light gray shingled ranch that the family purchased from the Franklins marked the end of the town even though Red Creek stretched another twenty miles. His mother, Grace, was a beautiful young woman who caught the eye of many suitors. Even so she kept to herself attending to the needs of her son like any caring mother would. Grace chose to shield him from the community introducing him only to those who spoke to him first. She would introduce him with a shyness trying to keep his ‘special’ situation quiet. Joshua was a small boy in stature and he remained upon the coattails of his mother while she tended to her everyday chores. The quiet painter quickly became part of the community along with his quiet way. Even in a school of just under two hundred children, he seemed to fade into the crowd. Grace would not let him attend regular classes instead she schooled him at home in mathematics, history and English. He did however attend school events along with physical education and enrichment classes such as art. Nobody truly knew him but still he had a presence sitting quietly in the back of the class. When he began attending school we quickly came to know of his name as his teachers would call out in waiting for him to respond. Joshua, the quiet painter, would be marked absent at the beginning of every term for at least two weeks. At least until his teachers came to know of his special situation.
From the back of his abbreviated classes he grew from a quiet child into a quiet teenager. From the back of the class he noticed everything especially the beautiful, young maiden Laura Billings. Her flowing red hair and her cute smile were enough to catch a young boy’s attention as she strutted by with her walk. Some of us noticed his affection for her, when she entered the room the quiet boy found the time to smile. When it came to art class, he found joy in his work especially in painting portraits of Laura. His teacher knew of his affections for Laura, but Ms. Johnson never displayed them for the class. Amazed by his flair for painting she gave them to Grace to keep in hope she would encourage his talent. Grace though chose to keep his work private along with his talent and affection for Laura. Hoping to shield him from heartache, Grace started to display his work throughout the house. She encouraged him to continue for an audience of one as with every completed work Joshua was rewarded with a hug along with a special diner. Soon the house was to full of his paintings, so she slowed his work to one painting every other month. In school he excelled in every subject even those he did not find all that interesting. Joshua, the quiet painter, graduated at the top of his class but his absent speech kept him from being valedictorian. Instead the honor went to Laura who spoke very eloquently about life, her hopes and of her dreams. Soon after, Laura left for college leaving Joshua absent of his inspiration, his admiration and his desire.
With Joshua growth from a boy into a young man, he developed a presence about him. Joshua never spoke a word but his smile spoke volumes to those whom he crossed paths with. Just after his graduation, Grace got her son a job at the general store three days a week overseeing the register where he quickly out grew his job. In fact they allowed him to do just about every job in the town at one point of another with the exception of hair cutting. As I said before, Joshua had a presence about him wherever he went so the town quickly adopted him as their own. In fact Joshua became some popular amongst the towns folk that he could not leave the house without returning with a pie. Some believed it was his rugged good looks that made him so desirable, others believed it was his sweet smile but for my part I believe he just knew how to listen. See its very easy to speak with someone when they have no way of disagreeing with you or even the desire to get in a word. Joshua would just sit back with an attentive ear and a smile that made you believe he was listening. As far as Grace, some say she was a lonely bitter woman who never truly moved on from her divorce. Come to think of it I think it was more the men who she rejected who truly believed she had developed into a bitter woman. Others thought she was a great woman who put her son’s needs ahead of even her own. No matter tragedy struck the town when Grace passed away from a heart attack at the young age of only forty-four. Joshua at the young age of nineteen had lost his father, his ability to speak and now his mother had passed ever so suddenly. During the funeral proceedings, the town held vigil at the general store to keep Joshua from being overwhelmed. The townsfolk cooked in the morning, provided lunch for all of the mourners and even served dinner in between services. Grace even in her death provided for her sons well being as she had arranged for a guardianship for him. Her biggest fear is that her son Joshua would slowly receded from the town into a reclusive state of being. Grace arranged for Ms. Johnson, his favorite teacher, to keep watch over him from a distance. Grace hoped that her son had grown enough to keep his home in order without the everyday encouragement of a custodial mother. Before her death, Grace took care of her son by investing his earnings as well as her money in insurance for them. So with her death the quiet man was allowed to grieve silently in his own home with the exception of a visiting Ms. Johnson.
Around the same time Laura returned home with her beautiful smile and a husband standing politely at her side. Jim Trent stood a striking six-foot-four with a golden smile complimenting his rugged good looks. He stood out like an old oak tree would in a forest of smaller pine trees. Along with his overwhelming presence he had a personality that demanded attention no matter where he went. Her reappearance struck the quiet painter with a dagger through his grieving heart. Through everything his affection for Laura had not wavered nor had his affections lessened with her departure. In fact the mere mention of her name bought a smile to his timid face. Laura’s return only amplified his loss as he would sit quietly peeking from within his soul at her oblivious motions. Unable to speak, unable to cry, he quickly began to seclude himself from the outside world further into in his home where he painted from morning to night. He painted quietly throughout the day only venturing out for supplies or some fresh air from time to time. By this point he had full developed into a man of stature standing just short of six feet, with long black hair and a thick beard to match. His striking blue eyes complimented his rugged looks with a touch of soft depth. By my count he walked the length of the town twice a day stopping to notice anything out of the ordinary if only for a moment. Sitting in my rocker on my creaky porch I always wondered what he was looking for as he would glance at you with a studying eye peering through you with attentiveness. Returning home he never sat on his porch or toiled in his gardens like most of the towns people. Instead he paid a local boy to keep his lawn short, his flowers tall and his weeds from overwhelming his plants.
Like any city or town Red Creek had its share of problems behind closed doors. The difference in Red Creek was that our problems were handled in our own way outside of the press or the eye of the town. The town had only two policemen and one of them served as a crossing guard for the schoolhouse nestled on the corner of creek road. For the most part we had need for only one of them as Red Creek was a town absent of mischief, even though we had are share of clowns. Misguided youths were turned over to their parents for guidance through appropriate discipline. From the naïve eye the town was a picture of complete tranquility with the exception of the occasionally rowdy square dancing festival. The quiet painter saw things in a much different light though, for his perspective was one of attentive eye. How could a man find pleasure in traveling within the elements especially in a blinding snowstorm or a driving rain? Joshua never missed a day of travel even if the day called for a rest. Without much contact we studied each other from a distance not much more then twenty or thirty feet. His eyes spoke his greeting along with a small grin that popped up as he passed by without much of any fanfare. Day after day he wandered the streets sometimes in the middle of the night when only the sound of his shuffling feet could be heard throughout the town. The quiet walker took in every sight, even those that we could not see. Returning home, as we would later find out, he took in those moments like any artist would but choose to recreate them in his work. He saw beauty in the simplest of things as a tiny collection of raindrops could inspire at least a days worth of work. He would pause to notice things feet from where I sit know writing this story that I could never find the time or desire to recognize. Joshua would study my flowerbeds for seedlings, blossoms and even the morning dew. Ms. Johnson would pass by my porch every three days like clockwork on her way to visit the Joshua. She would return the same route only with a smile bigger then her previous which always begged the question why?
Tragedy struck the life of the quiet painter again in the fall of 1996 when Ms. Johnson passed away peacefully in her sleep. Ms. Johnson served as the only real human contact for the quiet painter so her lose was especially hard on him. He along with the rest of the town took vigil in her home during the funeral except the quiet painter remained behind while most others had found their way home. Joshua remained behind in support of Phillip; Ms. Johnson only son, as the two found common ground in their love for her. Phillip and Joshua had met at Grace’s funeral a few years earlier. Phillip had moved to a bigger city just after high school some twenty or so years ago. He had a love for Red Creek within his heart but found Red creek unsuitable for his dreams. So he moved east in hopes of landing a job in law enforcement but returned year after year to bask in the tranquility. After Grace’s funeral Phillip took Joshua under his wing much like a older brother would, celebrating the quiet painter’s talent with every visit home. Philip did not speak of the quiet painters work to anyone not even his family who came into town for the funeral. Keeping his promise to his mom he kept the work quiet in appreciation for his mothers as well as Grace’s wishes. Philip stayed for about three weeks after his mother’s death following her same path just about every other day past my porch. Just like his mother he to returned home, with a smile bigger then the one he passed by with begging the question why?
As for me I remained seated on my rocking chair collecting my thoughts alone waiting to join my Eleanor in heaven. Eleanor had left me in the spring of 1993 at the young age of eighty three in her sleep while I slept next to her. When I woke she seemed so peaceful sleeping next to me almost like an angel she laid there looking back at me. It took me four hours to call the doctor as I knew she was already gone. Some cry, others laugh but for me I just sat there in quiet, amazed by her beauty. Kissing her lips for the last time she smiled back at me even though most would say that was impossible. There is never a day that passes that I do not miss her but Red Creek made her lose a little easier. The town adopted me like so many others giving me life beyond my grief. Now sitting here on my porch my days are filled with the bustle the town provides for an eighty something year old man.
With the death of Ms. Johnson the quiet painter began to journey out more often solely for human contact. He began to walk the length of the town four or five times a day with his studying eye guiding his feet. Some six months after the passing of Ms. Johnson the quiet painter stumbled upon my steps with a smile hoping for an invitation. The young man politely sat next to me in silence while I sipped away at my afternoon tea. Sitting there with him I wondered what had taken him so long if all he wanted was a seat next to me on my porch? We did this for about week, he sitting in silence next to me while I drank in silence next to him. Sometime within the second week of us sitting I began to speak of my memories of Eleanor not knowing if anything I was saying actually entertained him. Like a polite young man he smiled at every word, he even nodded from time to time. Within an hour or so he would excuse himself so he could continue his journey around the town. At my age my eyes may miss a few important details once in a while but even I noticed his walked slowed everytime he passed Laura’s new home. Her husband purchased the home of Ms. Johnson from her son Philip before he left. Laura had her first child two months after they moved into the white shingled ranch decorated in rose beds. The roses caught Joshua’s eye along with Laura’s smile that greeted him when she cared to notice him strolling by. The months past in earnest as the quiet painter visited with me almost daily sitting beside me in quiet. He may have thought me to be naïve as my porch sat in sight of Laura’s gardens where his attention remained focused. No matter his intentions we or at least I found his presence stimulating enough to fix him a cup of tea prior to his arrival.
With the coming of the fall of 1997 everything seemed to be status quo as the town was decorated in apple pies, colorful leaves and the school bell had its fall ring back. Even the kids were once again hustling past my porch hoping to be late even though they were hustling. Fall happened to be my favorite time of year as the afternoons were even more peaceful with the kids nestled away in the schoolhouse. My new friend still stopped by for his afternoon visit even though Laura’s gardening became more of a hobby then routine. She began to remain secluded more often then not keeping the quiet painter waiting in earnest for a quick glimpse. Her absence meant more time for me to reminisce about my Eleanor which in turn meant more of my new friend nodding in approval. By early November the frustrated, quiet painter had begun to seclude himself within his home which in turn made him even quieter then before. From time to time he would wander by but his steps were quicker with more determination in them. Soon I became the observing one as his light would stay on long past the midnight hour. He would wake at the crack of dawn logging just a few hours sleep at night. With a hushed quiet my observing eyes continued to log his hours in a journal kept quietly in my mind. Just like Grace, and Ms. Johnson my quiet way kept his secret hushed even though I truly had no idea.
The twelfth of December has no true significance to most anyone but to me the twelfth of December has special meaning. We, Eleanor and I, were married on the twelfth of December all the way back in 1937. Surrounded by family and a few close friends we exchanged vows under a moonlight sky at the strike of seven her favorite time of day. Eleanor always loved the moments after diner when we settled on the couch satisfied enough to say nothing. She would hold my hand with her gentle touch comforting me after a large meal. When I woke on the twelfth of December in 1997 I had no idea what was about to happen nor could I know what it was going to do to me. Naïve to the world around me I settled into my old, dirty recliner to watch some television. The recliner sat in the corner of my living room which also overlooked the front porch. Settled in it took me a few hours to notice the plain wrapped package that sat upon my wood swing just outside my door.
final update will be posted in a few days _____________________________________________________________________________
When choosing to write my first short story for the site I decided to write in the moment, hence the title. When thinking of love, my thoughts center on moments of indescribable passion. Some would say that love fades into familiarity but for my characters their love is a celebration of togetherness. For my characters their love consumes their every thought, their every waking moment. 'A Moment' will explore the desires of two souls entangled within their desires for one another. 'A Moment' will capture a single expression of love in words meant to melt into the soul of its readers.
A life absent of love is a life absent of beauty."
A Moment
Eternal beauty is easy to see as the look of another is honored in the eyes of an admiring fool. Eternal love may seem like a fairy tale but for those who have found such dedication they know of its rewards. For love is a series of extraordinary moments nestled quietly in the minds of two souls. Their admiring smiles ring truth in the gaze of their loving eyes. With every thought of my Ann, every daydream, my smiles grows with anticipation of the next moment. For seventeen years, she has blessed my life with her beautiful soul. They say that love fades over time into a comfortable familiarity with one another but I say true love does not know familiarity. True love is a quest of sorts to find a home within the soul of your desires. For my desires have remained true even with the passing of time as my Ann has grown more beautiful by the day. There is not a day that passes that her smile does not impress me as if I am a child staring at an ice cream sundae. With the passing days, my love for her has not faded or dimmed even for a moment. We have shared angry moments just like others but our passion for one another does not fade in disgust. In fact, we find the passion within anger to be healthy for our love as we find absoluteness in our sorrowful arms. So here, I am writing my story with a smile guiding my admiring pen. For who am I you may be asking yourself? I am just a man in love with an angel. I am just a man who remains in awe of his wife even after the passing of so many years. Who am I? At this moment I am a man late for a celebratory moment with my naïve and forgetful wife.
My lateness will only hasten my preparation for an anniversary of sorts. Twenty years ago today my Ann and I first kissed with the awkwardness of youthful, but nervous passion. In our young minds never could we have imagined what was to come nor could we truly appreciate the beauty within the moment. We shared a simplicity within our playful lips that took my breathe away. She stood, almost pausing, as if she knew what was to come. At the time Ann was a young, beautiful, innocent woman, whose spirit made her beauty seem dull in comparison to her heart. She spoke through her youthful passion with a sweetness that tugged at my weak heart. My love for her grew with every waking moment especially those spent apart from one another. With every goodbye, my fears grew that my gift somehow would not find her way back. Nervous moments kept me from feeling at peace, as my first thoughts were always of what if? Even with her tears of joy, of happiness, my admiring heart never trusted in eternity. Who was I to deserve such happiness? Who was I do deserve such beauty. With every passing moment spent within her arms my first thought was of heaven, for I had found my definition of the rain. My tears never dried even in the sun as with every breathe I found a new reason to be in love. Even now, twenty years later, her kiss completes my day as my smile waits in anticipation.
The night begins to settle in the distant horizon, which means my time grows short and my anticipation of her arrival begins to grow. My Ann will arrive home without thought of the day for she has always been absent minded, when it comes to our past. She does not love me any less but appreciates my fondness for the memories. When she arrives home somewhat defeated by the busyness that consumes her daily schedule, my love will be greeted by her smile. As if our daily greeting was beginning a new, we find surprise in arriving home to one another. Waiting upon the front porch like a lovesick puppy, I wait one-step in distance from the previous day. Looking deep into the poetic horizon painted in soft rainbows, my mind drifts into thoughts of her. So many days have passed will she still remember the moment like I? Will my kiss have the meaning it once did? If my nightly prayers are to be answered then my kiss will fall upon her with the power of twenty waterfalls. When I think of her opening the door, my smile can only try to hide itself in shyness. Her unwitting heart will find a world created solely for her and in thought of her beauty. My anticipation begins to grow with fury as the distant horizon begins to creep up on me. With the setting of the sun, my queen will return to her waiting kingdom where she will find her paradise. The stubborn sun mocks my excitement with that of a turtle’s pace leaving the darkening sky.
Within the moment, I have found joy not only in the anticipation of the coming night but also in the preparation for such an event. For with every rose pedal left decorating the steps leading to our chamber, she will find a mirror lying beneath her feet. Within her, I see a bouquet of colors matched only in its delicate nature by that of a rose. If my heart could speak, then it would speak in pedals dedicated to her simplicity. Even in quiet she speaks through her captivating eyes, like a mime, her beauty speaks without words. Her eyes at first glance seem to be just that of an ordinary blue. At second glance, her eyes define blue as they captivate the sky’s attention with jealousy; the sky shies away in her waking moments. Within her smile, the sun seems dull as with every laugh she illuminates my world with the light of a thousand sunrises. Her beauty does not end in her smile but only begins in the curves that seem to perfect to be natural. When my fingers caress her cheeks they find a sculptor’s touch has left a masterpiece. Not just any sculptor but the hands of god have left their own touch in her breathless curves. Within my ordinary looks, some may say that I seem lost, as would I. Lost in the shadows of a princess whose beauty can only be equaled by an angel of soul and body. Laying the pedals upon the ground I did all I could do to keep myself from picturing her body next to mine. With every picture, every thought, comes an indescribable smile that decorates my lips with undying passion. My quest to lay the roses remains endless as every pedal gives me pause. Within the gentle touch of every rose lives a portrait of my Ann that gives me patience in her absence. For her heart speaks through her every word, her every sound and her every thought.
As the sun continues to slowly fall, with every passing moment, my heart pretends to breathe. So many days have passed before us, but still we remain in love like two children. Within our home, I have left little reminders of our past sitting in the glow of burning candles. Candles that shake in the light air revealing and hiding portraits of our love. My favorite reminder will always be the picnic basket that sits just above the red blanket we use for picnics. The picnic basket represents are youthful playfulness that has not faded nor has it disappeared. Even within our busy lives, we have found moments to celebrate our youthful love. Choosing just one memory remains my most difficult choice for my Ann has given me a lifetime of memories in each setting of the sun. She could have been writing this story just a few weeks ago as she greeted my arrival home with the same celebratory excitement, as I will hers. Upon my arrival home, she was waiting in slumber for me on our blanket. To tired to remain awake she found the strength to chill a bottle of wine and light a few torches in the backyard. Never have I seen such beauty in rest nor in action for she looked so peaceful. Hoping not to wake her, I remained as quiet as restful water so I could take in her beauty, undisturbed. We remained upon our blanket locked in a single embraced until the morning sunrise greeted her confused smile. After a few moments she with a smile of appreciation laid back down until the morning dew became too much. Some would say we missed out on something but in my heart we gained something. For even in sleep I remain in love with her so much so that my breath seems to never rest. By the next night, she had become such a part of my body that I felt naked when she left me for any reason. Now sitting here in anticipation of her arrival, I can only hope that my Ann chooses to never leave me again. For with her departure I grow weak like the flowers that decorate our home starve for water in a hot day. My Ann, my love, how many more moments must pass before you quench my thirst?
Memories guide me in my quest to impress her on a daily. For she is my heart, my breath as if she was my entire being I lust for her. In creating moments, there is no need to plan for my heart speaks through my hands. My Ann, my love lives within everything that is beautiful and redefine its beauty with her touch. Along with our memories placed neatly around the house I left pieces of me in every room. Pieces of my heart, of my soul, that with luck she will find even if she does recognize the meaning. In the hallway, I left a key in the card dish just below the mirror. Hoping that she will pick up the key while gazing in the mirror and realize that her smile is what consumes me. Her smile not only consumes me with passion but also sparks a flame within my heart. If my wishes were to be fulfilled my desire for tomorrow would quietly wait outside our window with patience. For time challenges us as people to live within the moment but the moment seems too short when I am embracing my Ann. In addition to my key, I leave my tears along the floor in the living room. My tears of joy, my tears of happiness and of course my tears of sadness. For seventeen years, my tears have collected quietly without her knowledge just above my heart. They fall when she arrives home in honor of her arrival for her mere presence gives me hope. They fall when she leaves for her departure carries the weight of a thousand tears. My heart beats slower without her. My thoughts seem less certain for she makes me certain, gives me belief. My tears of happiness fall just beyond her sight everytime she hugs me for within my arms my beauty finds rest. In our bedroom, I have left a hundred mirrors hiding behind the sheets. A hundred mirrors that will remain in cover for when the moments calls they will appear in her eyes. Never would I want her to miss a moment of our time together. She may miss my smile as I kiss her body but she will not miss my body. Everywhere she looks, every turn she takes a hundred mirrors will be inviting her to take in the moment. A hundred mirrors that will mark a hundred centuries for my love will last into eternity.
The time is slowly ticking away. The horizon is settling into night as the sun tries in desperation to hang on. Light is not needed for her curves live in my dreams, just as her lines decorate my daydreams. Throughout our home, there are curves, lines highlighted in candlelight to remind me of her shape. Everywhere I look her beauty extends the hallways, extends the sunshine that lights our home through the windows. We tried to collect paintings for a while but none of them seemed beautiful enough to grace her walls. For a while, much like a naïve child, I tried to learn how to paint but the brush never created strokes to justify her smile. In every room even on a normal day, flowers decorate every tabletop. The delicate lines of the flowers remind me of my Ann. If you sit quietly enough to watch a flower bloom, you already know what I am about to say. My Ann belongs amongst a thousand roses for her beauty blooms in every waking moment. From my first waking glance, she impresses me, with her soulful nature. Her hair runs in lines of passion that whisk by with an indescribable scent. She draws me to her just by being her, even though she will never understand. She, My Ann, does not fit the mold, as she would need to be a bouquet of colors and shapes. Within the moment, she drowns me in a rainbow of unseen color, unseen to those who do not know her touch. Like a melting snowflake, her beauty takes life from me as I think heaven is here, within her touch. We have found a home within the arms of one another, a home that no one will ever understand.
As the sun settles in the unending horizon she begins to turn the corner, my knees begin to weaken with nervousness. Upon her arrival home I will look within her eyes deeper then ever before so she may know that another day has passed. With the rising of the sun my love grows just as the flowers in the spring blossoms with care. The car creeps closer to our driveway, the entrance to our home, as the stars begin to fill the sky. Hoping to calm myself, I begin to breathe deeply, so that I may greet her with the respect an angel deserves returning to her heavenly cloud. A small rain dribbles down the overhang splashing upon my cheek keeping me from returning to my daydream. Her car pulls ever so slightly into our driveway with the left rear tire hugging the rock boarder. Never will she change, even though her left rear tire changes often, nor would I ever want her to be different. A misty rain begins to fall with its gentle touch caressing the ground below me. My first sight of her is that of her long legs which brings my heart to a breathless halt. The misty rain begins to thicken into warm droplets blinding me to my Ann’s arrival. Walking to her car hoping just to maintain my balance I kneel as I reach her door in honor. Taking one last deep breathe I close my eyes just long enough to appreciate the moment. She drops to her knees with a bouquet of yellow roses shadowing her beautiful cheeks. Our lips met along with our memories that fill our loving tears. The rain drops fall between our lips blessing our love in birth for this was our first kiss of the day. We begin to stroll ever so slowly to our home stopping every so often for another kiss. The creaky porch made us smile as the top step has needed to be replaced for at least a year. Opening the door to our home she began to weep in my arms just as she had done so many times before. Our night, my night, was just about to begin as the front door swung closed leaving us secluded from everyone but ourselves. My Ann, my loving Ann. Arriving home she had to prove me wrong again as the flowers were for me. Ever the sly one she would later admit that no matter how many years had passed, how many kisses had faded into yesterday, the first kiss would always be the first. Moments cannot last a lifetime but a lifetime begins with a moment. Some desire a fairy tale but I live within one. Playing the part of the ugly frog is never easy as I live in awe of my wife, my love. She will always be my first and my forever as long as my soul aches she will be my Ann. Eternal love may seem like a fairy tale but for those who have found such dedication they know of its rewards. For love is a series of extraordinary moments nestled quietly in the minds of two souls. Our night lasted into the morning as we sat on the back porch watching the sunrise wrapped in our blankets. When I look back all I can do is hope to breathe for my Ann took every breathe I had in one moment. With the sun rising we kissed time and time again until our lips began to hurt. Some live in the moment, others prepare for the moment; I wait for the moment to overwhelm again. Moments in love, moments appreciating love and of course moments of experiencing love. What better moment could there be then a moment filled with love?
My lateness will only hasten my preparation for an anniversary of sorts. Twenty years ago today my Ann and I first kissed with the awkwardness of youthful, but nervous passion. In our young minds never could we have imagined what was to come nor could we truly appreciate the beauty within the moment. We shared a simplicity within our playful lips that took my breathe away. She stood, almost pausing, as if she knew what was to come. At the time Ann was a young, beautiful, innocent woman, whose spirit made her beauty seem dull in comparison to her heart. She spoke through her youthful passion with a sweetness that tugged at my weak heart. My love for her grew with every waking moment especially those spent apart from one another. With every goodbye, my fears grew that my gift somehow would not find her way back. Nervous moments kept me from feeling at peace, as my first thoughts were always of what if? Even with her tears of joy, of happiness, my admiring heart never trusted in eternity. Who was I to deserve such happiness? Who was I do deserve such beauty. With every passing moment spent within her arms my first thought was of heaven, for I had found my definition of the rain. My tears never dried even in the sun as with every breathe I found a new reason to be in love. Even now, twenty years later, her kiss completes my day as my smile waits in anticipation.
The night begins to settle in the distant horizon, which means my time grows short and my anticipation of her arrival begins to grow. My Ann will arrive home without thought of the day for she has always been absent minded, when it comes to our past. She does not love me any less but appreciates my fondness for the memories. When she arrives home somewhat defeated by the busyness that consumes her daily schedule, my love will be greeted by her smile. As if our daily greeting was beginning a new, we find surprise in arriving home to one another. Waiting upon the front porch like a lovesick puppy, I wait one-step in distance from the previous day. Looking deep into the poetic horizon painted in soft rainbows, my mind drifts into thoughts of her. So many days have passed will she still remember the moment like I? Will my kiss have the meaning it once did? If my nightly prayers are to be answered then my kiss will fall upon her with the power of twenty waterfalls. When I think of her opening the door, my smile can only try to hide itself in shyness. Her unwitting heart will find a world created solely for her and in thought of her beauty. My anticipation begins to grow with fury as the distant horizon begins to creep up on me. With the setting of the sun, my queen will return to her waiting kingdom where she will find her paradise. The stubborn sun mocks my excitement with that of a turtle’s pace leaving the darkening sky.
Within the moment, I have found joy not only in the anticipation of the coming night but also in the preparation for such an event. For with every rose pedal left decorating the steps leading to our chamber, she will find a mirror lying beneath her feet. Within her, I see a bouquet of colors matched only in its delicate nature by that of a rose. If my heart could speak, then it would speak in pedals dedicated to her simplicity. Even in quiet she speaks through her captivating eyes, like a mime, her beauty speaks without words. Her eyes at first glance seem to be just that of an ordinary blue. At second glance, her eyes define blue as they captivate the sky’s attention with jealousy; the sky shies away in her waking moments. Within her smile, the sun seems dull as with every laugh she illuminates my world with the light of a thousand sunrises. Her beauty does not end in her smile but only begins in the curves that seem to perfect to be natural. When my fingers caress her cheeks they find a sculptor’s touch has left a masterpiece. Not just any sculptor but the hands of god have left their own touch in her breathless curves. Within my ordinary looks, some may say that I seem lost, as would I. Lost in the shadows of a princess whose beauty can only be equaled by an angel of soul and body. Laying the pedals upon the ground I did all I could do to keep myself from picturing her body next to mine. With every picture, every thought, comes an indescribable smile that decorates my lips with undying passion. My quest to lay the roses remains endless as every pedal gives me pause. Within the gentle touch of every rose lives a portrait of my Ann that gives me patience in her absence. For her heart speaks through her every word, her every sound and her every thought.
As the sun continues to slowly fall, with every passing moment, my heart pretends to breathe. So many days have passed before us, but still we remain in love like two children. Within our home, I have left little reminders of our past sitting in the glow of burning candles. Candles that shake in the light air revealing and hiding portraits of our love. My favorite reminder will always be the picnic basket that sits just above the red blanket we use for picnics. The picnic basket represents are youthful playfulness that has not faded nor has it disappeared. Even within our busy lives, we have found moments to celebrate our youthful love. Choosing just one memory remains my most difficult choice for my Ann has given me a lifetime of memories in each setting of the sun. She could have been writing this story just a few weeks ago as she greeted my arrival home with the same celebratory excitement, as I will hers. Upon my arrival home, she was waiting in slumber for me on our blanket. To tired to remain awake she found the strength to chill a bottle of wine and light a few torches in the backyard. Never have I seen such beauty in rest nor in action for she looked so peaceful. Hoping not to wake her, I remained as quiet as restful water so I could take in her beauty, undisturbed. We remained upon our blanket locked in a single embraced until the morning sunrise greeted her confused smile. After a few moments she with a smile of appreciation laid back down until the morning dew became too much. Some would say we missed out on something but in my heart we gained something. For even in sleep I remain in love with her so much so that my breath seems to never rest. By the next night, she had become such a part of my body that I felt naked when she left me for any reason. Now sitting here in anticipation of her arrival, I can only hope that my Ann chooses to never leave me again. For with her departure I grow weak like the flowers that decorate our home starve for water in a hot day. My Ann, my love, how many more moments must pass before you quench my thirst?
Memories guide me in my quest to impress her on a daily. For she is my heart, my breath as if she was my entire being I lust for her. In creating moments, there is no need to plan for my heart speaks through my hands. My Ann, my love lives within everything that is beautiful and redefine its beauty with her touch. Along with our memories placed neatly around the house I left pieces of me in every room. Pieces of my heart, of my soul, that with luck she will find even if she does recognize the meaning. In the hallway, I left a key in the card dish just below the mirror. Hoping that she will pick up the key while gazing in the mirror and realize that her smile is what consumes me. Her smile not only consumes me with passion but also sparks a flame within my heart. If my wishes were to be fulfilled my desire for tomorrow would quietly wait outside our window with patience. For time challenges us as people to live within the moment but the moment seems too short when I am embracing my Ann. In addition to my key, I leave my tears along the floor in the living room. My tears of joy, my tears of happiness and of course my tears of sadness. For seventeen years, my tears have collected quietly without her knowledge just above my heart. They fall when she arrives home in honor of her arrival for her mere presence gives me hope. They fall when she leaves for her departure carries the weight of a thousand tears. My heart beats slower without her. My thoughts seem less certain for she makes me certain, gives me belief. My tears of happiness fall just beyond her sight everytime she hugs me for within my arms my beauty finds rest. In our bedroom, I have left a hundred mirrors hiding behind the sheets. A hundred mirrors that will remain in cover for when the moments calls they will appear in her eyes. Never would I want her to miss a moment of our time together. She may miss my smile as I kiss her body but she will not miss my body. Everywhere she looks, every turn she takes a hundred mirrors will be inviting her to take in the moment. A hundred mirrors that will mark a hundred centuries for my love will last into eternity.
The time is slowly ticking away. The horizon is settling into night as the sun tries in desperation to hang on. Light is not needed for her curves live in my dreams, just as her lines decorate my daydreams. Throughout our home, there are curves, lines highlighted in candlelight to remind me of her shape. Everywhere I look her beauty extends the hallways, extends the sunshine that lights our home through the windows. We tried to collect paintings for a while but none of them seemed beautiful enough to grace her walls. For a while, much like a naïve child, I tried to learn how to paint but the brush never created strokes to justify her smile. In every room even on a normal day, flowers decorate every tabletop. The delicate lines of the flowers remind me of my Ann. If you sit quietly enough to watch a flower bloom, you already know what I am about to say. My Ann belongs amongst a thousand roses for her beauty blooms in every waking moment. From my first waking glance, she impresses me, with her soulful nature. Her hair runs in lines of passion that whisk by with an indescribable scent. She draws me to her just by being her, even though she will never understand. She, My Ann, does not fit the mold, as she would need to be a bouquet of colors and shapes. Within the moment, she drowns me in a rainbow of unseen color, unseen to those who do not know her touch. Like a melting snowflake, her beauty takes life from me as I think heaven is here, within her touch. We have found a home within the arms of one another, a home that no one will ever understand.
As the sun settles in the unending horizon she begins to turn the corner, my knees begin to weaken with nervousness. Upon her arrival home I will look within her eyes deeper then ever before so she may know that another day has passed. With the rising of the sun my love grows just as the flowers in the spring blossoms with care. The car creeps closer to our driveway, the entrance to our home, as the stars begin to fill the sky. Hoping to calm myself, I begin to breathe deeply, so that I may greet her with the respect an angel deserves returning to her heavenly cloud. A small rain dribbles down the overhang splashing upon my cheek keeping me from returning to my daydream. Her car pulls ever so slightly into our driveway with the left rear tire hugging the rock boarder. Never will she change, even though her left rear tire changes often, nor would I ever want her to be different. A misty rain begins to fall with its gentle touch caressing the ground below me. My first sight of her is that of her long legs which brings my heart to a breathless halt. The misty rain begins to thicken into warm droplets blinding me to my Ann’s arrival. Walking to her car hoping just to maintain my balance I kneel as I reach her door in honor. Taking one last deep breathe I close my eyes just long enough to appreciate the moment. She drops to her knees with a bouquet of yellow roses shadowing her beautiful cheeks. Our lips met along with our memories that fill our loving tears. The rain drops fall between our lips blessing our love in birth for this was our first kiss of the day. We begin to stroll ever so slowly to our home stopping every so often for another kiss. The creaky porch made us smile as the top step has needed to be replaced for at least a year. Opening the door to our home she began to weep in my arms just as she had done so many times before. Our night, my night, was just about to begin as the front door swung closed leaving us secluded from everyone but ourselves. My Ann, my loving Ann. Arriving home she had to prove me wrong again as the flowers were for me. Ever the sly one she would later admit that no matter how many years had passed, how many kisses had faded into yesterday, the first kiss would always be the first. Moments cannot last a lifetime but a lifetime begins with a moment. Some desire a fairy tale but I live within one. Playing the part of the ugly frog is never easy as I live in awe of my wife, my love. She will always be my first and my forever as long as my soul aches she will be my Ann. Eternal love may seem like a fairy tale but for those who have found such dedication they know of its rewards. For love is a series of extraordinary moments nestled quietly in the minds of two souls. Our night lasted into the morning as we sat on the back porch watching the sunrise wrapped in our blankets. When I look back all I can do is hope to breathe for my Ann took every breathe I had in one moment. With the sun rising we kissed time and time again until our lips began to hurt. Some live in the moment, others prepare for the moment; I wait for the moment to overwhelm again. Moments in love, moments appreciating love and of course moments of experiencing love. What better moment could there be then a moment filled with love?
