The young woman -that same one, so melancholy and lonely just a few days ago -early one evening, pulled up into the grocery store parking lot. Hopping out and locking up the car with a beep, she made her way to the pebbly gravel trail that snaked around the lake. The summer sun shone bright yet, blessing the Earth's garden here with it's golden rays. Ducks swam and scratched, ruffling their feathers, quacking and honking, ducklings swimming along behind them close to shore. A dark ponytail swooshed by and then a blond one. A couple walked by hand-in-hand. A youthful man jogged slowly by, another at least thirty years his senior sprinted past. Everyone went at their own pace here.
A cool breeze blowed through the young woman's dark locks, strands of her curls flew into her face and flirtatiously played at her shawl, sliding it off her shoulders. She chose to wear it as an open scarf instead, smiling to herself and pulling down her shades. Today her earphones whispered the light gentle airs of her college years, music she had ripped off the dorm network -Paul Simon, The Dispatch, 80s Madonna, Ben Folds, Guster, Journey. It was that kind of balmy eve.
A gazebo approached on her left, snuggled in the grassy hill. The water rippled and shimmered to her right. And then the exercise park was before her. A couple of women lifted bars with plump arms and laughing faces, a lone boy lay hanging off a low bench by one hand. Just behind, the swings beckoned, old, but solid, big kid swings along side the baby basket ones. The wind tickled her neck again, the scarf blew up like a blue flame about her arms. She sat in the black curve and pushed off into the freedom of that bright, nearly cloudless sky above, letting the air caress her face, her arms, her legs and collar bones. One father pushed his little daughter in the neighbouring basket, another his toddler son, adjacent. The former squealed with delight as the other cried out, fearing the fall. There is no fall though, only flight, she thought to herself, now dragging one foot in the rocks and then walking slowly back towards the trail.
Long, lush green and purple grasses blew like rivers to kiss the lake, The underside of little leaves shooting up on the tops of the trees, like silver-white flowers of a different place and time. The trail hid shyly now amidst weeds, rocks, trees and more of the grasses. Buttercups scattered themselves between bushes of big pink flowers and little red ones, a cluster of violet lupins off to one side, park benches, docks, picnic tables and artist's nooks in the perfect places. Wish I had that body, the young woman thought as a slim figure ran towards her in a bright turquoise sports top. The wrinkled smile under the blonde bob surprised her as the timeless woman ran past. Something out of a picture book for sure. The air had grown sweetly fragrant, melting away those insecurities and she inhaled deeply -it was intoxicating. Then the sharper whiff of a lone pine amongst the leafy shrubs and trees. She passed circularly about a brooke that really did bubble into the lake. Bliss was poetic too, she thought, but the cliches are way more obvious. She wished she knew what azaleas were in that moment, just so she could say that she then spotted a cluster of those, but she didn't know the name of those flowers. Neither did she know what birds chirped by as they sailed up into the tree overhead, maybe swallows? Did they even have swallows out here? A tree bough leaned gracefully over the lake with a sort of honouring tenderness. The young woman felt so blessed and alive. What a beautiful place this was, what peace it brought... home indeed.
Walking leisurely behind the regatta boathouse and then back onto the last bit of trail, all she asked was that she could remember as much of this enchanting beauty as possible. Perhaps this place would make her a real writer yet.
A cool breeze blowed through the young woman's dark locks, strands of her curls flew into her face and flirtatiously played at her shawl, sliding it off her shoulders. She chose to wear it as an open scarf instead, smiling to herself and pulling down her shades. Today her earphones whispered the light gentle airs of her college years, music she had ripped off the dorm network -Paul Simon, The Dispatch, 80s Madonna, Ben Folds, Guster, Journey. It was that kind of balmy eve.
A gazebo approached on her left, snuggled in the grassy hill. The water rippled and shimmered to her right. And then the exercise park was before her. A couple of women lifted bars with plump arms and laughing faces, a lone boy lay hanging off a low bench by one hand. Just behind, the swings beckoned, old, but solid, big kid swings along side the baby basket ones. The wind tickled her neck again, the scarf blew up like a blue flame about her arms. She sat in the black curve and pushed off into the freedom of that bright, nearly cloudless sky above, letting the air caress her face, her arms, her legs and collar bones. One father pushed his little daughter in the neighbouring basket, another his toddler son, adjacent. The former squealed with delight as the other cried out, fearing the fall. There is no fall though, only flight, she thought to herself, now dragging one foot in the rocks and then walking slowly back towards the trail.
Long, lush green and purple grasses blew like rivers to kiss the lake, The underside of little leaves shooting up on the tops of the trees, like silver-white flowers of a different place and time. The trail hid shyly now amidst weeds, rocks, trees and more of the grasses. Buttercups scattered themselves between bushes of big pink flowers and little red ones, a cluster of violet lupins off to one side, park benches, docks, picnic tables and artist's nooks in the perfect places. Wish I had that body, the young woman thought as a slim figure ran towards her in a bright turquoise sports top. The wrinkled smile under the blonde bob surprised her as the timeless woman ran past. Something out of a picture book for sure. The air had grown sweetly fragrant, melting away those insecurities and she inhaled deeply -it was intoxicating. Then the sharper whiff of a lone pine amongst the leafy shrubs and trees. She passed circularly about a brooke that really did bubble into the lake. Bliss was poetic too, she thought, but the cliches are way more obvious. She wished she knew what azaleas were in that moment, just so she could say that she then spotted a cluster of those, but she didn't know the name of those flowers. Neither did she know what birds chirped by as they sailed up into the tree overhead, maybe swallows? Did they even have swallows out here? A tree bough leaned gracefully over the lake with a sort of honouring tenderness. The young woman felt so blessed and alive. What a beautiful place this was, what peace it brought... home indeed.
Walking leisurely behind the regatta boathouse and then back onto the last bit of trail, all she asked was that she could remember as much of this enchanting beauty as possible. Perhaps this place would make her a real writer yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment