How brilliantly the sun reflected off the fragile crystal droplets of rain past which was scattered throughout the Spanish moss clinging like draperies across the boughs of ancient magnolias. They stood as silent sentries, protectors of a time we know not as their diamonds in the sun slowly evaporated amid the warmth of a balmy afternoon.

I stepped from the threshold of a balcony encased mansion my gaze shifting out upon the spreading lawn of lush green, bedecked with mahogany tables that were covered in web like gossamer. The stark white contrasted temptingly against the threatening stain of green.

My gown of yellow taffeta rustled an almost silent murmur following my every step as it brushed against the cool bare of my ankles and unencumbered feet. I carried a tray of lemon ices which were already beginning to melt as I descended the wide well aged wooden steps that delighted the mansion’s expression and allure. Pausing I whispered to myself, “what a glorious day to ‘paint me a Birmingham’1.”

“Lunch with Pericles!” Mama beckoned from across the lawn. “How divine!”

Auntie Grace was already seated. A coy smiled mingled with childish glee was spread across her somewhat wrinkled yet rosy complexion. “How divine indeed! However did you manage it?”

“Why, with an invitation of course!” Mama made her way languidly to the vacant chair beside Auntie Grace. Her face although shadowed by the wide brim of a casual and worn straw hat still contained the jubilant glee of expectant anticipation.

“Oh I do so hope it doesn’t snow. It always does you know!” With a snap Auntie Grace unfurled her fan accompanied by a clucking sound vibrating deep within her throat a noise she was accustomed to make when at a loss for more words. Vigorously she fanned away the balmy air, wisps of gray escaping from a knot at the nape of her neck, fluttering in unison with every wave.

“Really Auntie Grace the very idea!” Who could not be amused at such a thought on such a day as I offered a round of the lemon ices.

Mama was meticulously arranging the flowers she had gathered throughout time. The richness of their hues vividly accented the delicate print of her pale blue cotton gown.

“I do so hope you did not invite that notorious Frenchman as well my dear!” Auntie Grace looked aghast at my affirmative nod. “Once the La Mouette has docked… I am quite certain we will see his skiff being moored over there.” I waved my hand in a careless gesture toward the stream that was slowly appearing from a haze of memory. What was a party after all without Jean Benoit Aub`ery he was quite the philosopher in many ways.

“But what of the authorities?” Her eyes grew round at the thought. “He is a pirate, my dear and you know how authorities are about pirates! They will surely come and then what will you do?”

“Why I shall simply ‘razzle dazzle’ them of course! Ha-ha! Besides Mama said I could invite anyone, anyone that is except hippos.” I caught the twinkle which lit up Mama’s eyes as she gave me an approving nod. She was so beautiful setting there, placid and calm, merging with the backdrop of the gentle river which was now in full view, rolling a melodious tune as the wind gave a gentle whisper to the honeysuckle vines racing about in slow motion.

“Oh I do so hope you invited Mr. Adams at least! He simply has the most fascinating things to say! And will speak of war dear, oh how divine!” Auntie Grace shivered at the thrill. She was quite the old goose.

“You say the most shocking things Auntie Grace!” I laughed in spite of her idolized pessimism. “What else is an old woman for my dear?” She passed a wink in my direction causing me to sigh.

“Auntie Grace need I remind you once again: ‘in Flanders’ Fields the poppies blow between the crosses row on row’2.” I felt a shiver run down my spine…“And of course Mr. Adams is on our list, however he does not speak of war Auntie Grace, he is a passionate man that speaks of an ideal. He is someone to marvel at as anyone with an ideal is”.

“Ah, did I hear my name?” Mr. Adams emerged from seemingly nowhere carrying a small bouquet of posies which he presented to Mama. “And you Auntie Grace?” He withdrew a bell from his waistcoat pocket which seemed rather large for such a small portion of cloth and dangled it by her ear. “Do you hear that sound my dear? It is the voice, the voice of liberty!”

Auntie Grace blushed crimson secretly enjoying her moment at the center of attention before quipping, “oh, do sit down John!”

“Yes please do,” Mama echoed delightedly fingering the small bouquet of posies. She was pleased, very pleased, as was I.

“Now wherever is that brother of yours? He is coming isn’t he?” It was impossible for Auntie Grace to refrain from talking for any prolonged period of time.

“Of course! He will arrive with a rose in his lapel and his hair glistening in the golden light of a brilliant sunset which will be the finishing touch to seal the end of a glorious day.”

“I knew it! He is to be late!”

“Ah…” I bit my lip in an effort to hold back my embarrassment for having written him in with the sunset…

“Give the child her prose Auntie Grace…” Mama to the rescue.

“As well she should!” My brother’s voice! I turned around. Ah yes exactly! He was waving a paper a proud gleam in his eyes.

“The entire page dedicated to your work!” My brother enthused.

Now how… this was a surprise! With my imagination rivaled I caught my brother’s eye whispering “thank you.”

“Mr. Adams let us speak of war.” Auntie Grace chimed in.

“Auntie Grace let us speak of poetry.” Mama placed her hand over Auntie’s gnarled one, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Yes! I wish to speak of all that is good, beautiful, and lovely. It’s as it should be Auntie Grace, as it should be.”

“An ideal my dear,” Mr. Adams commented, “an ideal.”

“I love ideals,” my brother grasped Mama’s free hand looking tall and handsome with a hint of mischief hiding behind the ocean blue of his eyes.

“Whatever is that hippo doing over there?” All eyes turned towards the solemn river, focusing on the giant, leathery hippo calmly slobbering humongous mouthfuls of water and looking very confused and out of place.

I raised my eyebrows with a quizzical stare at my brother, “did you invite the hippo?”

“It was an accident.” To that reply we all burst into hysterical laughter which reverberated through the clinging air and scared the poor creature frantically yet thankfully to us, in another direction.

“Tea anyone?” Auntie Grace unnerved by the strange occurrence of the hippo picked up another thread of conversation.

“None for me Madame,” Mr. Adams had already turned his cup over placing a spoon across the bottom, before bestowing a wry smile in Auntie Grace’s direction.

How flustered she looked again. My brother and I silently enjoyed her discomfort, albeit rather guiltily.

“Is Ben coming?” Mama turned to Mr. Adams

“Ah, unfortunately… no Madame, the gout keeps him constrained this day to his bed. However he sends his felicitations and requests I give you…” He began rummaging once more in that mysterious pocket, producing a small volume, “this” Mama’s eyes lit up.

“The wisdom of the ages” her hands trembled slightly as she embraced the volume.

“Indeed” Mr. Adams replied.

The ground began to vibrate from the beat of galloping hooves. “Arthur!” I screamed, running to the dismounting guest with a warm embrace. “My lady” came his courteous reply. He appeared rather disconcerted from my overwhelming display so I presented my hand instead, self-consciously aware of all eyes present enjoying my enthusiasm.

“You are just in time for… coffee!” Grabbing his arm I pulled him towards the group as Mama proceeded forward with the introductions.

“Don’t look now my dear, but I do believe your glorious Frenchman has arrived.” Auntie Grace pointed towards the river and the man mooring a skiff, with a sketchpad clasped under his arm. Such luck!

“I thought we were having lunch with Pericles” Auntie Grace looked baffled.

A feathery touch of ice alighted on my nose just then causing me to tip my head towards the sky.

“Look it’s snowing!” My brother rejoiced as if he were surprised.

“I knew it!” Auntie Grace sighed her shoulders slumping.

All around us the fragile ice, feathery white, began to descend. In unison, palms raised heavenward to embrace the cool repose.

“Ten minutes is all,” my brother whispered as we let it melt against our skin. “I know you prefer snow better than rain.”

“Thank you… again.”

For that moment the world was transformed into a glimpse of another season and all was truly calm, truly bright.

In course the illusion departed, leaving in its wake the vibrant chorus of a million peepers calling, one to another, each answering in a different key that blended into a full blown symphony.

I had returned the favor on this perfect day. And the party had only begun.

Act II

“Read to us Mama!” Tenderly, lovingly, she fingered the small volume her visage transpiring through a phase of unshared emotion. The golden and amber light of the sun’s rays reflected from her expression. Colors rose taking wing to flood the darkened recesses of memory’s vision. The hills broke forth illuminated, birds sang shrill, clamorous, each etching for a scene on the stage. Lilacs joined as well outweighing the scent of magnolias. As she opened the volume we all leaned in a little closer.

“ ‘One today is worth two tomorrows’3,” the words floated on the trembling breeze. It would appear her eyes were focused on me yet beyond my moment of selfish oblivion I perceived they were upon each of us gathered there, personal yet distant. Slowly the words began to seep past our exterior and permeate the very souls of our beings as only words with such gift may convey. I savored the moment as I would savor this day…

Mr. Adams seized with a feeling of tenderness, unbiased from lack of social conformity reached across the table to give mama’s hand a gentle pat.

“Hmm” Auntie Grace strummed her fingers on the table. “If Marie Antoinette were here there would be cake!”

Arthur sat in reflection his eyes downcast, fingertips pressed to silent lips, oblivious to his surroundings.

“Arthur, how are things in Camelot? I hear tell it never rains?” As if on cue a dark cloud challenging my comment crossed the sun. We cast our gaze upwards simultaneously.

And before his lips could part to utter a reply—

“ ‘Few are my years and yet I feel the world was ne’er designed for me’4.” A labored footfall fell to ear as the voice dissipated.

“Well you are looking disgustingly pale George dear.” Auntie Grace forever the form of discretion… I leapt to my feet hand outstretched. “Lord Byron it is an honor…” his wane face encouraged yet another comment from dear Auntie.

“You need cake!” Then in afterthought, “perhaps crackers and sherry?”

“Auntie Grace really! Besides we are waiting for all our guests.”

“Well is it not crowded enough? I am surprised you haven’t invited Napoleon himself—”

“Bonjour Mademoiselles!”

“Now you’ve done it Auntie Grace! Really you are absurd!”

I turned to the short, stout, little man who cast a powerfully long shadow.

“My apologies Monsieur Napoleon, au revoir!”

With a snap of my fingers he was gone as swiftly as he’d appeared. I was after all way in over my head considering the snow and giant hippos and I had no intention of letting Auntie Grace bathe in Waterloo.

“You ob-liver-tated him!”

She looked like a guilty toddler caught just before dinner with melted chocolate covering their hands and face.

“I obliterated him, Auntie Gr—”

“George Madame, I prefer simply George.”

“Ah my favorite exile” I replied before shooting a look of, mind your manners, towards Auntie Grace. “Allow me to find you a seat.” I slipped my arm through his.

“Is Shelley not joining us as well?” Mama questioned once he was seated.

“I am afraid not today, however he bid me console you with, ‘waking or asleep, thou of death must deem, things more true and deep, than we mortals dream’5.” The words floated across the lawn…

A bell tolled splitting the solemn receding day, vibrating the earth with its echoing peals. All eyes turned to Mr. Adams, whose upturned hands recognized no responsibility for the sound. Yet from somewhere near or far away, a bell peeled from a church tower, from a steeple gray, forgotten, cracked and broken, yet remaining still in memory and that memory now found voice. As the aura of souls past escaped the confines of time and stepped forth to witness and bask in the light.

Then one above the rest spoke:

“ ‘This is in memory. This is in remembrance.

Rise up and speak you voices’6.”

“Stephen?” Mama turned towards the shadows, as a small man, suit pressed, horn rimmed glasses reflecting his eyes, emerged. A tear slipped down her face.

“Mama?” the worry in my voice reached for her.

There were many now. I could barely see as faces loomed from the dim recesses of the mind, coming one by one to our table to this day that together we created.

Stephen’s voice carried on through the chimes:

“ ‘Milton and Whitman Tennyson and Swift,

Mark Twain and Hugo-every one who wrote

With a free pen in words of living fire

From Plato dreaming of his bright republic

To every exile walking in our streets

Exiled for truth and faith

And all of ours, all of our own today

All those who speak for freedom

These are our voices, these shall light the fire

Light the bright candle that shall not be quenched

The never has been quenched in all man’s years

Although all DARKNESS and all tyranny

Have tried to quench it.’7”

“Who marches with me?”

Mr. Adams stood with a thundering applaud. The peeling bell grew louder more brave as the crowd began to mingle, embracing and conversing from every time, from every age the message rang true. Now it was rejoicing.

This is why I told him to come… This is the reason I breathed life once more into the words of forgotten days into the moth eaten essence of humanity, of life and purpose… for him, for them. Yet he was nowhere to be seen.

“I thought we weren’t to speak of Flanders’ Fields.” Auntie Grace retaliated in confusion. But her voice was lost. Unconcerned she commenced cutting cake.

Mr. Adams reflecting and now somber spoke in saddened tones: “ ‘But a constitution of government once changed from freedom can never be restored once lost is lost forever.’8”

He continued on:

“ ‘And the proposition that people are the best keepers of their own liberties is not true. They are the worse conceivable, they are no keepers at all they can neither judge, act, think, or will as a political body.’9” He was perspiring now, clearly disturbed and frustrated as despair laced his voice, consuming his vision.

“I am in accord Mr. Adams” Arthur confided sorrow lining his face. Perhaps things weren’t going so well in Camelot after all. I missed his smile.

“We must see the world as it’s meant to be, not as it truly is… Cervantes was a great teacher of this truth.” Mama’s voice seemed frail now as if the liberation of the world from tyranny and the hope of past greatness still remained unattainable.

“But…” John continued. “ ‘Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide…’10”

“But we have our dreams Mr. Adams! We have our dreams!” I reached his side placing my hand on his arm, he seemed surreal now. I felt that if I closed my eyes he would vanish, but opening them could make him disappear.

“Dreams to keep the very seeds of our civilization alive, visions which craft the very key that can never truly be lost and which can unlock at will, the mind, the soul and the freedom to embrace the power to live! You gave us that… all of you gave us that!”

“It has been lit…” He whispered pointing towards the horizon. We witnessed the heavens burst forth into flames as our voices joined together to resurrect the immortal words. With the dust scraped away the core now lay exposed:

“ ‘Voices of dead and living, past and present

Voices of gagged men, whispering through sore lips.

Voices of children, robbed of their small ways.

Strong voices chanting of the rights of man.

Rebel and fighter, men of the free heart,

We, too shall build a fire, though not in fear,

Revenge or barren hate, but such a great

And cleansing fire it shall leap through the world

Like a leaping flame!

Freedom to speak and pray,

Freedom from want and fear freedom for all

Freedom of thought freedom of man’s bold mind!’11”

“Do you hear me, do you hear us?” But still he remained elusive…

“You are decidedly a woman after my own heart.” Mr. Adams’ eyes seemed to pierce the nerve of my soul. I stared back into the depth of truth.

“Well then Mr. Adams,” taking his arm, “that makes us even.”

“I say let them eat cake!” Her voice filled with childish emotion Auntie Grace seized her moment in the midst of this unusual party that was madness or divine purging fire or perhaps both. It was a day born on the horizon of illuminating hope and powerful vision. We gathered around the tables making room for one more. Feeling a gentle tap on my shoulder I turned to face Arthur.

“As I desired to answer my lady… ‘Amor Vincit Omnia’.”

Act III

Jean sat perched on the banks of memory’s river intently focused on the subject before him with a sketch pad propped on one knee. There in the gently changing tides, statue like as if sculpted from wood, stood a young crane.

My brother approached listlessly glancing occasionally over his shoulder. “The party grows loud.”

“Did you find what you are looking for?” Jean glanced up from his sketch, eyes squinting through the rays of light.

“Did you?” My brother countered

With a deep resolute sigh, Jean tossed his sketchpad to the ground and fumbled through his pockets to locate his pipe before answering:

“ ‘Once there was a man called Jean Benoit Aub`ery. Who had estates in Brittany, money, friends, and responsibilities, and one day he became weary of Jean-Benoit Aub`ery and so he turned into a pirate, and built La Mouette.’12”

“So you became somebody else? Is that even possible?”

“I have found it so”

“Are you happy?”

“I am content” Jean leaned back in reflection stretching his legs out before him. His gaze resumed on the subject of his sketch.

“But what’s the difference?” My brother seemed confused, melancholy; the very heart of life had somehow fled. Not by choice, as much perhaps, as by circumstance.

“ ‘Between happiness and contentment? Ah, there you have me. It is not easy to put into words. Contentment is a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony and there is no friction. The mind is at peace and the body also. The two are sufficient to themselves. Happiness is elusive—coming perhaps once in a lifetime…’13”

My brother folded his arms across his chest, pondering.

“I feel… cold…” He sighed. “Why does she keep writing out the sun?”

“She was having fun, but now her party is nearing its end…”

Jean closed his eyes.

“She has built for you a fire instead, warm your soul.”

Now I step apart, painting a portrait to your heart with a voice I have searched for through bleak winters and barren summers. Through pain and dread, fear and confusion, I speak to you from the memory of what we cannot forget that you may embrace life in the truest most defining essence of the word.

See that crane? Chiseled, frozen in time, he is a relic of the past amid a living world around him, pulsating with life, vibrant, changing and thriving. How proud he stands. Precariously balanced, one leg plunged deep the other aloof. To place both is to place all, so he stands. Out of fear? Caution? Or is it wisdom on the verge of extinction? Taking of life that which it has to give, returning back that which it most needs… remembrance… He is a symbol.

Perhaps for some we are the cranes, fitting yet unsure of belonging or as the trees surrounding, silent, yet offering calm and shade to a parched and desolate world. Or as this river before you, unsure of where we are going but enjoying the journey and change that inevitably makes the sum of us. Merging together we form a whole, rather for good or ill, but each relying on the other for the who of what we are. The past, the future, the days in which we now transpire are a part of us and someday will become a part the very existence of time. To remove the crane is to make the scene incomplete, significance is reality.

We do not need to know why that crane is there or why he continues to fight for survival, we only need to understand he belongs and that each emotion each experience defines our existence. For there is more beyond what the eye can perceive.

Although we may never build a country, challenge hypocrisy, or laugh in the face of tyranny, yet we are still a part of greatness. Dreams are still alive and the flame burns in each of us waiting to break forth, purging the earth with truth, honor, justice and above all hope, as we gather the flowers of the past and  keep alive all the passion and integrity of a future that cannot be silenced by lies, pain, or sadness. It belongs to us, our gift for them, from them. So that we might know we are not alone. They are a part of us as we were of them…

Act IV

“I must go now…” Mama whispered as the last visage of golden light seeped through her smile illuminating her face in an ethereal glow. “But you shall have a dream, a beautiful dream…”

The sun disappeared beyond the hills which appeared from the encroaching shadows as the colors faded from my canvas. The faces only moments before so alive and real now transpired into memory. As brave as I tried to remain… how could I not weep, as the whispered names and forgotten creeds embraced my soul.

“But what about Pericles?” The realization slowly dawned that his presence had never arrived that his voice was never heard and my party our party which I wrote into existence was never attended by the guest of honor.

“He was here…” Mama gave a knowing smile as her voice grew distant and my hands reached for her. I tried to run but could not move.

“We will always be here… remember… for them…” A mere whisper now…

Before my lips could speak her name one last time she was gone. I felt my brother’s hand reach for mine.

One remaining voice that of Whittier spoke from the encroaching darkness…

“ ‘The saddest words of song or pen are those that tell it might have been…’14”

I picked up the bouquet Mama had left and opened my eyes…