So I sit there, frozen but far from consumed. This joy is not mine. I wish with all I have that I could call it my own, but it’s not. The joy that lines the insistent horizon. The one that circulates endlessly around the dinner table, sticky with the soon close of the evening. Laughter seems to bound endlessly in its freedom-until something, something within me, deters its infection. I stare at my family’s happiness, the whole spread of life, and I feel as though I am in another place.
Sitting but not stirring, breathing but not speaking. And I am not sure why. My eyes ease across the scene to the gentle filaments. Wrapping tales of ivy’d branches in the breeze. I am not quite sure how far away I am from the trees, because in between us laps the forced, manmade pond, loudly springing water at all hours.
My only explanation as to why I let the dinner dwindle to nothing is my so-called spaciness. As though I hadn’t heard the tiresome grinding of the metal chairs against the cement, and goodbye cries half-fake, I am shocked to be alone. The patio is swept bare, and yet I seem to fill this newfound space. My solitude is cut short as Jiddo makes his way down the slow-taking steps. Each foot delays before kissing the ground goodbye-an act of caution and fatigue.
I am starting to meld with the scenes once more. The easiness of this moment almost makes me feel like crying. The feeling daddles only for a minute as I hear the hoarse cry of an old man, Hello! It is not coming from Jiddo, who is absorbed in the hymns he plays from his phone, each chord buzzing around him like bothersome flies. It is coming from the man on the pathway.
He is dressed far younger than he is, in cuffed jeans and a well-worn baseball cap, and alongside him pants a dog. Small and white; a puppy, whose tender years have known the man for even fewer. Young and old, yet companionship all the same. I set my gaze, and to some embarrassment have still not replied. Hi, I call hurriedly, so as not to act uninterested. Truth be told, I have a childlike reluctance when a stranger says hello. Yet he raises a patient hand and ushers a wave out of me in return.
Our conversation ends there, yet my interest pools still. I watch him grace each step along the path, steady and cool. His legs occasionally waver, yet I can tell from the unbroken calm that he is used to it. This promise in his steps ponders for a moment, as his dog freezes. Its eyes smile, leading to the easy hills that line the up and coming. The dog is leashed, but the man has made an active effort to keep it slack, gently rippling the cord in some hopes to rouse the dog once more. In a charming, striking act of curiosity, he cocks his head to meet the dog’s eyes, and pauses to stare where they lead him, too. The lacy trees receive two sets of warm gazes.
The dog resumes its padding along but in the opposite direction. And to my surprise, the man willingly retraces his slow steps. He lingers and lets the dog brush past him, and lead the journey reencountered.
Hairs fly into my face, a slight distraction from my distant studies. But I shift my gaze, welcoming their playfulness. They catch the sun, and I see its rays slip up and down each strand. I am in no rush, just as the man who ambles with boundless fascination. For we are graced every day, with the evening’s dreamlike aftertaste.
Sitting but not stirring, breathing but not speaking. And I am not sure why. My eyes ease across the scene to the gentle filaments. Wrapping tales of ivy’d branches in the breeze. I am not quite sure how far away I am from the trees, because in between us laps the forced, manmade pond, loudly springing water at all hours.
My only explanation as to why I let the dinner dwindle to nothing is my so-called spaciness. As though I hadn’t heard the tiresome grinding of the metal chairs against the cement, and goodbye cries half-fake, I am shocked to be alone. The patio is swept bare, and yet I seem to fill this newfound space. My solitude is cut short as Jiddo makes his way down the slow-taking steps. Each foot delays before kissing the ground goodbye-an act of caution and fatigue.
I am starting to meld with the scenes once more. The easiness of this moment almost makes me feel like crying. The feeling daddles only for a minute as I hear the hoarse cry of an old man, Hello! It is not coming from Jiddo, who is absorbed in the hymns he plays from his phone, each chord buzzing around him like bothersome flies. It is coming from the man on the pathway.
He is dressed far younger than he is, in cuffed jeans and a well-worn baseball cap, and alongside him pants a dog. Small and white; a puppy, whose tender years have known the man for even fewer. Young and old, yet companionship all the same. I set my gaze, and to some embarrassment have still not replied. Hi, I call hurriedly, so as not to act uninterested. Truth be told, I have a childlike reluctance when a stranger says hello. Yet he raises a patient hand and ushers a wave out of me in return.
Our conversation ends there, yet my interest pools still. I watch him grace each step along the path, steady and cool. His legs occasionally waver, yet I can tell from the unbroken calm that he is used to it. This promise in his steps ponders for a moment, as his dog freezes. Its eyes smile, leading to the easy hills that line the up and coming. The dog is leashed, but the man has made an active effort to keep it slack, gently rippling the cord in some hopes to rouse the dog once more. In a charming, striking act of curiosity, he cocks his head to meet the dog’s eyes, and pauses to stare where they lead him, too. The lacy trees receive two sets of warm gazes.
The dog resumes its padding along but in the opposite direction. And to my surprise, the man willingly retraces his slow steps. He lingers and lets the dog brush past him, and lead the journey reencountered.
Hairs fly into my face, a slight distraction from my distant studies. But I shift my gaze, welcoming their playfulness. They catch the sun, and I see its rays slip up and down each strand. I am in no rush, just as the man who ambles with boundless fascination. For we are graced every day, with the evening’s dreamlike aftertaste.
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