Monday, June 18, 2012

A Love Story

She wasn’t what I imagined.  My memory just would not settle for it.  I remembered strawberry blonde hair.  I remembered green eyes.  I remembered skin the color of eggshell.  The smell of sugar cookies.  Barely-there freckles.  Long dresses she wore to hide her frailty.  Her silent restraint laying in contrast to the neon rave that seemed to follow me everywhere.   

I remembered the way she held herself like a dancer, a ballerina, though she was not.  When she spoke, her hands danced with her words.  She would fan her fingers and roll them on her wrists.  When she made a point, she would extend her index finger alone.  When she spoke of fairy tales, she used her hand as a singing mouth.  When she hinted at deviousness, a Friday night jaunt into student housing at the university or a costumed midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Fox Theater, she smiled with lips closed, touched my shoulder with a finger, drew it down my arm, over my elbow, down into the palm of my hand, before fitting hers perfectly between my fingers.   That meant the plan was sealed.  Smoke a bowl.  Steal a couple 20s.  Shove our feet in some shitkickers.   And we were gone. 

With her, I felt like an elf in the shadow of a princess.  A twisted knot in the trunk of a willow tree. 

But as I saw her on this morning.  As we met on the pier.  I saw a changed girl.  A broken thing.  A willow tree bent by the ugliness of misplaced trust, heavy with the burden of heartbreak.  A princess locked in the highest tower of her own disenchanted spirit.  For so many of these 18 long years, she’d tried to live a crafted life.  She had become a dancer, but not the kind her hands dreamed.  She saw things beyond the Main Street we haunted, but so few memories broached the fog of intemperance.  And it was back to that very Main Street that she now returned.  But with a magical, dark-eyed doll sitting on a hip I never knew existed.  My wispy ginger ballerina stood beside me as a mother.  With bones of one who has borne a child.  Eyes that have cried, watched dreams crumble, sought shelter, and yet looked into me now with a dainty sliver of joy as she ran her fingers through her son’s perfect black ringlets.

He looked just like his father. 

Though I would have to take her word for it.  
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Studio 30+ prompt- We met on a pier

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2 comments:

  1. This could pass off as a story of you finding yourself but coming to terms with the fact that you weren't what you dreamed of becoming. Odd how we read a story and get many visions of what it may be...

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  2. This was very haunting and sad, and very real, to me. I agree with the first post, in that it could be a story of finding yourself and dealing with the realization that you are not the person you dreamed to be.

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