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…

How brilliantly the sun reflected from the fragile crystal droplets of rain past, scattered throughout the Spanish moss which clung as heavy draperies across the boughs of the ancient magnolia trees. They stood as silent sentries, protectors of a time we know not as their diamonds in the sun slowly faded, vanishing amid the warmth of a balmy afternoon.

I stepped from the threshold of a two story, balcony encased mansion, with white trimmed gables. My gaze shifting out upon the spreading lawn of lush green, bedecked with mahogany tables covered in web like gossamer their stark white contrasted temptingly against the threatening stain of green.

My gown of yellow taffeta rustled an almost silent murmur. With the exception of a steady whisper which followed my every step as the starched fabric brushed against the cool bare of my ankles and unencumbered feet. I carried a tray of lemon ices. They 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’.”

“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?”

“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 always guaranteed 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 which fluttered 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 now seated 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 dear!” Auntie Grace looked aghast at my affirmative nod. “Once the La Mouette has docked… in due time I am quite certain we will see his skiff being moored over there.” I waved my hand in a careless gesture toward the stream which was slowly appearing as if from a haze of memory. What was a party after all without Jean Benoit Aub`ery he was quite a philosopher in many ways.

“But what of the authorities!” Her eyes grew round at the thought. “He is a pirate 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, before she resumed her focused gaze back to the rearrangement of the flowers. She was so beautiful setting there, placid, calm, and content, merging with the backdrop of the gentle river which was now in full view as it rolled a melodious tune and the wind gave a gentle whisper to the honey suckle vines that were 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 Flander’s Fields the poppies blow between the crosses row on row’* I felt a shiver run down my spine… Knowing I dare not continue I sailed on buoyantly, “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 any man 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 as she fingered 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 became evident how very impossible it was 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 came to the rescue.

“As well she should!” My brother’s voice! I turned around and yes there was a rose in his lapel and a glistening shine to his hair as he waved a paper a proud gleam in his eyes.

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

“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.

What a surprise! Catching my brother’s eyes I mouthed the words “Thank you” And fully embraced the moment on this perfect day that was unfolding.

“Yes Auntie Grace! I simply adore speaking of all that is good, beautiful and so very lovely*. It’s as it should be Auntie Grace, as it should be.”

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

“I love ideals,” my brother grasped my 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, in the far distance a shadowy skiff was easing its way forward unnoticed by the attention focused 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 which 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 yet again as 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.

As coffee presented itself I played the part of perfect hostess filling cups with the murky brew as the ground began to vibrate from the beat of galloping hooves. “Arthur!” I screamed nearly toppling the table over as I ran to the dismounting guest embracing him in my enthusiasm. “My lady” came his courteous reply. He appeared rather disconcerted from my overwhelming display. I presented my hand instead, self-consciously aware of all eyes present enjoying this welcome.

“You are just in time for coffee!” I grabbed his arm pulling him towards the group as Mama proceded forward with the introductions.

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

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

“What a happy interval I find myself in” Jean spoke approaching the table. I felt gratified that he didn’t bring Donna, but then again perhaps it was not by choice as much as by pen.

A feathery touch of ice alighted on my nose just then causing me to tip my head backwards 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 we all turned our palms heavenward arms raised to embrace the cool repose.

“Ten minutes is all” My brother whispered as we let it melt against our skin. It was a rather refreshing and welcome interlude.

“I know you like snow better than rain.” My brother spoke beside me now.

“Thank you… again.”

For ten minutes all was silent, as the world transformed into the glimpse of another season, all was truly calm and truly bright.

Then it stopped and the air resounded with the vibrant chorus of a million peepers calling one to another, each answering in a different key, blending in a concerto which merged 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 and as the colors spread the rays 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. And as Mama opened the volume we all leaned in a little closer.

“One today is worth two tomorrows”* 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. The words slowly 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 fleeting moment of tenderness, unbiased from lack of social conformity reached across the table to give mama’s hand a gentle pat yet his words flowed for all ears present. “You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.”*

“Hmm” Auntie Grace strummed her fingers on the table. “If Marie Antoinette were here I am confident she would decree we should eat cake!”

With the solemnity of the moment now officially broken, Mr. Adams cleared his throat perhaps to stifle a laugh.

“Very true” With a raise of eyebrows and an exchange of knowing looks I allowed my comment to cover the fading question as the present one took answer.

Arthur sat in reflection his eyes downcast, fingertips pressed to his silent lips. He clearly appeared oblivious to his surroundings so I commenced to draw him forth from his reverie.

“How are things in Camelot Arthur? I hear tell it never rains?” As if on cue a dark cloud challenging my comment beyond words crossed the sun, Arthur and I leaned our heads back 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.* 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 and labored step encouraged yet another comment from dear Auntie.

“You need cake! Let us all have cake!” Then in after thought “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 quickly as he’d appeared. I was after all already in way over my head. Snow and giant hippos were one thing but I had no intention of letting Auntie Grace bathe in Waterloo.

“You ob-liver-tated him!”

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

“I obliterated him, Auntie Gr—”

“George Madame I prefer simply George.”

“Ah my favorite exile” I replied before shooting one last look of, mind your manners towards Auntie Grace. “Allow me to find you a seat.” I slipped my arm through his escorting him to a vacant chair near Mama.

“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.’ ”*

The words floated across the lawn. As a bell now tolled splitting the solemn receding day, vibrating the earth with its echoing peals and all eyes turn to Mr. Adams, whose upturned hands recognize no responsibility for the sound. Yet somewhere near and far away, perhaps beyond the clouds which now obscured the sun or beyond space a bell tolled 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 of this day.

Then one above the rest spoke.

“This is in memory. This is in remembrance.

This is for all the lies that have been told.

The innocent blood, the blood that cries from the ground,

Rise up and speak you voices*”

“Stephen?” Mama turned to face the shadows, a small man, suit pressed horn rimmed glasses reflecting his eyes, stepped forward. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

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

There were many now, I could barely see as faces loomed from everywhere, from the shadows, from the trees, from the dim recesses of the mind they came now one by one to our table to this day that together we created. As 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”*

“Who marches with me?”

Mr. Adams stood with a thundering applaud and the peeling bell grew louder, shriller, braver, free. The crowd began to mingle to embrace and converse from every time from every age the message rang true. Now it was rejoicing.

So this is why I told him to come this is the reason why I breathed life once more into the words of forgotten days into the moth eaten essence of humanity, of life, of purpose, for him, for them. Yet he was no where to be seen, as the voices blended into one.

“I thought we weren’t to speak of Flanders Fields”* Auntie Grace retaliated in confusion searching for my face through the crowd. Her voice was lost, yet unconcerned she commenced cutting the 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.”*

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” He was perspiring now, clearly disturbed and frustrated as despair laced his voice and began to consume 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 Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide…”*

“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 and 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!”

Mr. Adams pointed to the horizon as the sky ignited with more gold and amber rays, the flames of truth or the spark, the ember flaring from the possibility of words.

“It has been lit…” Then aside as if to myself; “Or has it always been yet this day this moment stroked the coals engaging the flame with a cry from the darkness a cry from a blinded world that now tears now devours and feeds upon the souls of brave men and woman who believed and who counted it as gain to sacrifice for that belief. We are all freaks of a past that cannot be changed yet we cower, and brand each other with false lies in order to crush the essence from the dream. We burn the past we shadow it with lies because truth we cannot bear, and for those who stand up and live with the heroes then and now branded freak, we echo crazy we preach insane…” Gazing to the sky I cried, “But I stand with you Stephen, with all of you!”

Together our voices joined 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!”*

“Do you hear me, do you hear us?” But I could not see my brothers’ eyes above the crowd…

Though I searched his countenance remained obscured to my vision, though I called, my voice remained lost among the peels and voices now ignited and consumed by a raging fire.

“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. The sky was on fire, alive, blinding, the sun slanting from behind the billows of smoke and clouds.  It was a day born on the horizon of illuminating hope and a 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 beneath the spreading boughs of one of the ancient magnolias that perched on the banks of memory’s river. Intently he was focused on the subject before him with his sketch pad propped on his knee. There in the gently changing tides, statue like as if sculpted from wood, stood a young crane.*

My brother approached listlessly with an occasional gaze over his shoulder. “The party grows loud. But there are no fireworks yet.”

“Give it time… 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

Jean gave a deep resolute sigh, tossing his sketchpad to the ground beside him he fumbled through his pockets locating his pipe before answering.

“Once there was a man called Jean Benoit Aub`ery. Who had estates in Brittany, money, friends, and responsibilities, and William was his servant. And William’s master become weary of Jean-Benoit Aub`ery and so he turned into a pirate, and built La Mouette.*

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

“I have found it so”

“And are you happy then?”

“I am content” Jean leaned back against the base of the weathered tree, stretching his legs out before him and lighting his pipe. In reflection he turned his gaze back to the subject of his sketch.

“But what’s the difference?” My brother seemed confused, melancholy, as if the very heart of life had somehow fled not by choice as much perhaps as by circumstance, yet nonetheless missing still and for this moment he again sought what he was looking for. Although the coals lay hidden within the fire which I had set, inside still waited to ignite.

“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…”*

My brother folded his arms across his chest, pondering.

“It grows cold the sun is fading…” He sighed. “Why does she keep writing out the sun?”

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

Jean closed his eyes.

“Your sister has built for you a fire, warm your hands, and soul.”

“Here is some cake for you” I approached quietly as the solitude of the moment was breathtaking…

We stood together watching the crane staring back at us.

Now I must step apart, speaking to your heart your soul, speaking with a voice I have searched for long and hard, through the bleak winter, barren summers, through pain and dread, through fear and confusion. I speak to you from the memory of what we cannot forget. I speak to breathe life upon the coals and embers which burn within, to ignite courage to build strength that you may stand. That you may hold up your head and feel pride, that you may embrace life in the truest most defining essence of the word.

Do you see that crane? Chiseled, frozen in time, a relic of the past amid a living world around him which is 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.

Maybe for some of us we are the cranes, fitting yet unsure of belonging or perhaps as the trees surrounding, silent, yet offering calm offering shade to a parched and desolate world. Or as this river that I paint before you unsure of where we are going but enjoying the journey and change that inevitably makes the sum of us. Merging together to 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 through are a part of us and someday will become a part of the whole which we call the very existence of time. To remove the crane from the picture is to make the scene incomplete, significance is reality.

We damage the whole inadvertently when in unknown blindness we slice out a piece of that which makes life what it truly is. For we cannot experience true joy, the accent of silver to the presence of sorrow’s clouds, without first having met and known sorrow’s pain which enables us to see all that joy truly is. As we cannot have strength without fear and lack of understanding is all that fear really is. When we understand and embrace truth even when some choose not to, it may embolden fear without, a fear which ultimately causes the printing of the volumes that claim us insane. But how valuable are the rare editions? They may call you, me, and us insane, but tell me what is passion what are ideals if not insane? Who has ever embraced them and been called otherwise? Do we then grant these pointing fingers the honor of sane?

Or do we like the crane acknowledge that there is more beyond what the eye can perceive and because of this we too belong as part of a plan whose prints were manufactured as far back as the dawn of time.

We do not need to know why that crane is there or why he continues to fight for survival, we only need to know he belongs and that each emotion each experience also defines our existence as well joining us together with time and the essence of eternity.

And this I paint for you, resurrecting heroes that you too may feel their light and realize that the very defining points which made them insane in the era in which they were placed and which made them outcasts, is a part of you as well. Although we may never build a country, challenge hypocrisy, or laugh in the face of tyranny, 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 we keep alive all the passion and integrity that cannot be silenced by lies, pain, or sadness. Because it belongs to us, it is our gift for them from them. So that we may know we are not alone. They are a part of us as we were of them…

A song now floods across the dream…“So does that make you crazy, does that make me crazy?”* Well I hope so…

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…”

I reached for her as the sun disappeared beyond the hills that had appeared from the encroaching shadows, and the colors began to drain and fade from my canvas. The faces only moments before so alive so real transpired into memory and 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 again. I tried to run to her 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.

As one remaining voice that of Whittier spoke from the darkness…

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

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

And the music stopped…

Act V

On the winds of remembrance I bring you fireworks breaking the night sky with fountains of joy and colors of gold, blue, and red. Flowers in slow motion that brand imagination with sight it is a tapestry of color shining through the bleak oppressive shadows to rain stardust, courage, and hope within your soul. Here is the vision, here is the light. I carry this for you, you carry this for me, and we carry this for them.

Do you see the little children playing, happy and free, no tears, no tears. Brothers, sisters, families, friends take hands, take hands there is dancing, dancing in the streets. Mamas with their babies pride shining from their eyes can you hear those sweet lullabies. Old people lined with age they are dancing too, dancing for what is, what could, what may…be. So rise up you voices, rise up and sing! Oh chorus of promise, of hope, and life! Let the ground tremble from our marching feet, let the earth shake vibrating and filled with our song, for it is time to let them hear, it has come the dream is ours. It remains immortal.

Gather round my precious ones, let me see those exultant faces as I feel your presence ever with me ever near. There is no distance, there is no pain, there are no hardships, and we will never fear. Sing, oh how you will sing, let them hear your voices. Join hands with me, we will march together, living the legend holding the promise, embracing the dream.

Acknowledgements/Biographies/Information for— Lunch with Pericles

Act I

*“Paint me a Birmingham” cited from a song by Tracy Lawrence, in which he imagines being back in time when things were the way he was happiest.

*Jean Benoit Aub’ery is a fictitious character created by Daphne DuMaurier from her book Frenchman’s Creek.

He is simply, well, a pirate.

*razzle dazzle, is quoted from the Chicago musical.

*Flander’s Fields is a poem that was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) of the Canadian Army. To this day it remains one of the most memorable poems ever written about war. It pertains to the battle of Ypres Salient which was fought in 1915.

McCrae was the doctor attached to the unit, afterwards scarred by what he had seen and having to perform the funerals for the dead because there was no presiding chaplain he wrote Flanders Fields. After completion he threw the poem away and a friend retrieved it and sent it to a newspaper. It was instantly published and spread across the world.

*all things beautiful and lovely, Philippians 4:8

Act II

*“One today is worth two tomorrows” penned by Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

*“You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket” penned by John Adams (1735-1826) as advice to his son who would follow in his fathers footsteps and later become the president of the United States as well.

You don’t really need a bio for John Adams as we all know he was obnoxious and disliked and we love him for it.

*“Few are my years and yet I feel—“penned by Lord Byron (1788-1824) also known as George Gordon. Probably one of the most misunderstood poets of all time. He was born a cripple, disowned by his father because of that and also because he was illegitimate.

While in college he wrote a book of poems which the media of his day scorned for no other reason except that he wasn’t a member of the upper set. This made him upset so he retaliated and ridiculed their snobbery and hypocrisy, something he would have cause to regret for his entire life. Feeling guilty for that he hunted down every copy of the book and burned it, but that was not enough, the press tore him apart, even when he couldn’t stand it anymore and fled from England they still wrote about him, making up stories anything and everything because it was fun and well they just didn’t like him. They pretty much drove the poor guy insane through rumors and lies, and then his wife ran off with his baby.

He lived a very sad lonely and miserable life. And was pretty much an exile in his own country.

*Waking or asleep—- “penned by Percy Shelley (1792-1822) who happened to be Byron’s friend, he was rather scandalous in truth. His first meeting with Byron was when a mutual friend came to Byron for assistance in bailing Shelley from jail. This friend would later marry Shelley and eventually kill herself after Shelley left her.

*Stephen Vincent Bene’t (1898-1943) was the brother of Laura Bene’t and became a famous writer. His play “They Burned the Books” was written as a slap in the face to Germany during WWII. Passages sighted are marked. He was a brilliant genius but lost a lot of credibility when accused of being a communist. He also penned the immortal story the Devil and Daniel Webster.

*And the proposition that people are the —

*But democracy never lasts long—

Words by John Adams

Amor Vincit Omnia – Latin for love conquers all.

Act III

*Crane: The whooping crane stands about five feet tall, and is one of two species of cranes remaining in North America. In the 1950’s the estimated number of cranes remaining in the world was approximately 48. These unique birds can produce a mere two eggs a year and are prone to a wide variety of predators. Before they have matured their feathers are a light brown, giving them the appearance of having been carved from wood.

*Some passages spoken by Jean are marked and have been sited from Frenchman’s Creek by Daphne DuMaurier

*The song Crazy was sited from lyrics written by Brian Burton, Thomas Callaway, Gian Franco Reverberi, Gian Piero Reverberi and sung by Gnarls Barkley.

Act IV

*The saddest words— cited from Maud Muller in Songs of Labor by John Greenleaf Whittier

Books referenced;

Songs of Labor – John Greenleaf Whittier, copyright 1898

Frenchman’s Creek – Daphne DuMaurier, copyright 1943

They Burned the Books – Stephen Vincent Bene’t, copyright 1942

Byron’s Poetical Works – Lord Byron, copyright 1923

Shelley’s Poetical Works – Percy Shelley, copyright 1923

He was setting there, pondering the sky as usual. But something was wrong. I wiped my soiled hands across my jeans, as I pulled up a chair. He seemed older today, more tired maybe. Yet the kind of tired that seemed to pour from within. So I sat, letting the wind blow the rain under our refuge, across my face, through my hair, as I waited. His tears seemed to flow in unison with nature’s torrent. But I knew I could not comfort him, because he was a man who didn’t cry. Time lingered on, for the words I knew would eventually come. They belonged to us in a way. Forging our one and only lasting bond. Of course there was a great deal we did share in common. But this was one thing that I could do for him, that really meant something. “Take me up on the hill.” I stood silently, still pretending not to see, as he wiped the tears away from his eyes. I went for the keys as he filled his tiny picnic bag, the way he always did. It was red, his favorite color. He hobbled out to the car, through the pouring rain.

Halfway there the heavens opened up, and I was forced to pull over. It’s a blessing he whispered. She was speaking to him, in words I could not fully understand. Rain would always be special to our family, but they were the two who knew so perfectly why. Something inside me longed to hear, to tune my soul a little closer. But it was not for me. No, today I was the silent observer of a scene unfolding; a scene that for some reason I was unable to penetrate, yet it would always be seared against my heart. Maybe because of that I understood a little bit better, in my own way.

I wondered to myself, if they ever really needed words. For it was and probably always will be a wonder to me that such a love could exist at all. But I had seen it, and witnessed it again that day, as he knelt in the mud, the rain soaking us. I stood off to the side, studying the hills, those hills that surrounded and enfolded this place, as unmovable sentinels, protectors. He ran a trembling hand across her name, as gently as if he’d touched her face. Her beautiful face, with that smile that calmed even the harshest storms, and those eyes that seemed to reach into the most troubled corners of a your soul, knowing, understanding, and that smile always made your world right again.

She wasn’t a goddess. She was real, very, very real…

“No go straight,” he pointed. “This road.” And we drove on. It had changed a lot, although the years had traveled slowly. With a faint smile I recalled the barefoot me, who use to walk this way, so many summers ago. I let myself become lost in thought, as I knew he too was. On separate roads we traveled back in time, through fond memory.

We crossed the bend, where the tiger lilies once grew. But the road now cut away into reminisces, and only one still remained. It was here that I was a child. And here I use to come to gather the colors of summer, for her. How tall that last tiger lily seemed to me, as it stood there alone, a silent protest, against the sometimes cruel and unrelenting hand of change.

As the day began to fade across those distant hills, the color drained as shadows crept. I slowed our pace once more. He began to talk. “There’s where we use to pick the berries.” I remembered that cove. It was so peaceful and refreshing on a hot mid august day, always so still, and quiet. I use to love the way the twilight would play tricks through the growing darkness, as the fireflies would appear as if by magic to light it all again.

But now houses stood in place of trees, pavement cut the once soft ground. For change had taken yet again. Giving to some, but we weren’t among them. For all we had now, were pockets full of memories. We were the outsiders now, looking in to what had been, to what would remain, only inside our hearts, where the hand of change could never reach.

He didn’t want to go home, as I took that last turn. For home was where we had been, not where we were going. I noticed the tears well again, but didn’t see. He held his little red picnic bag abit tighter, turning his face to the window. I lifted my foot off the gas, coasting was about as slow as I could go. I watched from the corner of my eye, as he tried to form words that would not come. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “the creek is abit higher after the rain. Abit stronger maybe…” I pulled into the drive, and whispered back. “Happy Anniversary Pa…”

For a moment I closed my eyes envisioning that last tiger lily and I knew no matter what the tiger lilies would still grow…

A small party later, the book is given, inscribed with love, as a memory is born. One sister to another. Time moves on.

I see a young woman, tears in her eyes. The book held close, sisters saying goodbye. “It won’t be long until we are back, I will see you again.” But the smile of old has faded now. Yet words remain…Time moves on.

I see a mother, with a baby in her arms. A new name inscribed in the book, with love. Explosions ignite the darkened sky. Her hands tremble, fear draws closer, smearing the name, as time moves on.

I see a man. His motherless child plays nearby. A man searching for peace, as he opens the book, a date to inscribe…Tears fall, time moves on.

A soldier grips the book, with blood covered hands. “Run, my son, run! Take this book to another land.” I hear the cries, I see the terror. As time moves on.

A young man stands before a window, watching the setting sun. He turns to the medals on a table nearby. Then with a sigh he searches for the book, another date to inscribe. As time moves on.

A baby’s cry swallows the night, beginning again. With laughter, and joyous tears, another name inscribed. Hope and promise, hand in hand. Time moves on.

I see a son, confusion in his eyes. “I don’t know who I am!” He explodes at his father. The older man sighs, picking up the book. “It’s all in here…” Whispers to a son which cannot hear.

The tears again, a boy becomes a man. With anger his hands pick up the book, a date to inscribe. “I never was so confused, so scared.” He whispers, turning the blood stained pages. “He shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” Inscribed with love…

And there she was lost in a world too full of people. There was nothing imposing about her appearance albeit rather worn if anything and as yesterday too soon forgotten. But her eyes would tell another story numerous stories in fact for those who chose to read. She towed a small handcart carefully displayed her goods in small clay pots, row upon row,her cactuses. A middle aged woman paused before the cart, packages in hand, a slight stare, no flowers? Then a burst of laughter before shaking her head and moving on disappearing into the ever shifting tide of the flowing crowds. She smiles in confusion as the day merges into the steadily approaching night. A clock somewhere chimes the unknown hour in a year that doesn’t really matter as the city begins to glow. The cart still full the girl moves down the street. A drunk staggers forward begging money, she has none so presses on making her way across alleys shifting into streets. So what waits for her beyond? A small rundown apartment in the lower part of the city, up flights of stares she drags her burden third floor, her room, her home; the one window faces another cement block, in an endless row of granite upon concrete. Near this window the cactuses are carefully placed in a pointless hope for more than artificial light. She’s tired but can’t yet sleep hungry but cannot eat. Why won’t they sell? No one wanted them what was wrong with them, with her? She perceived beauty survival gave them that.

The far wall showed her last attempt at flowers. Withered, they were once beautiful but now they were dead. The cactuses were strong, fierce, born for surpassing odds. She  glanced out the window on the city that could not sleep either, and wondered. Somehow the word why was always constant reminded questioning a past she longed to escape if
only she could forget. A tear splashed against the window ledge it had escaped before she found her small cot to lay down in an effort to seek rest.

That night she dreamt as she often did. Her mind wandered to a field covered in flowers mile after mile color upon light. They swayed together in the breeze their dance for the sun. As she walked by one by one their heads began to hang their color to drain away. The breeze suddenly stopped, ending the silent dance, as sunlight vanished behind
darkening clouds. They began to transform into faces. Faces of ones she had known, loved or trusted…laughing, calling, and beckoning to her. Until they too began to fade and were no more. She opened her eyes face against a dampened pillow to greet the steely cold gray of yet another day.

It began as the numerous ones before had, cart laden, streets walked. Her mind numb as she chose places in an endless attempt to catch the attention of the crowds pressing by. Resulting mostly in stares or a scornful laugh from time to time, a questioning glance, perhaps a sale? But no, not for her. So she moves on street connecting to street, as a web never changing, never ending, moving, dragging the cart behind her. She wonders at the crowds and city, until they too become the flowers and the field where she doesn’t belong. Her presence only causing the color to drain, the sun to vanish, and the faces, endless faces, where names no longer matter en-snarled in a web, where pain is the only reality for one who ceased to care.

The sky opens as the rain begins to descend from laden clouds in this city where the sun seemingly refuses to shine. It would be pointless to try and reach the shelter of her home before the downpour reached full momentum. People scrambled to reach shelter, as she pushed through once more finding a small awning jutting from a run down building that she somehow hadn’t noticed before. It had long since seen its brighter day if it ever had. What remained of windows were shadowed and the place seemed vacant, like a shell, where a soul no longer remained. She would wait here until the rain passed then return to what she called home, ending yet another pointless day. She had become unknowingly as one asleep yet walking, day after day, through a world not seeing. Was there really a
point to anything? she asked herself. It was as if the entire human race was searching for something, but what that something was she wasn’t sure. And how could something be found if no one even knew what it was? Maybe it was the oppression of the stifling city or the endless gray of the robbing clouds or maybe a combination of many things her
heart had kept hidden, slowly building over the lonely years, which caused her to cry, like she had never donebefore. Footsteps nearby made her to turn

“Hello, are these for sale?”

A rather pointless question it seemed, from a strange man who added to her list of nameless faces. His features were hard to discern in the dim light. But his voice seemed to offer a calming effect. Rather numbly she answered

“For anyone who wants them”.

“I do.”

He picked one up tossing some coins in its place then disappeared before she could begin to wonder where he came from. The street was quite vacant do to the storm…The storm, when did it stop? She would make her way home now the cactuses were a bit wet they would survive though they were tough, they always did.

Time passed causing growth to frustration adding numbness to the cold that was replacing her heart. One evening near the river her cart caught on something, causing the small clay pots to jar and crack…She pulled it near the edge, as she contemplated many things in this world where she couldn’t seem to feel she belonged. Picking up a cactus examining the crack she tossed it into the river.

“Worthless like me, my dreams, anything can be broken.”

One by one she tossed them into the river watching the icy hands of the currents pull
them under. Useless to everyone, useless to her now. So she watched them disappear,
made them disappear. What was survival, when even that was empty…?

”Excuse me”.

That voice, she recognized it turning to greet the stranger once more. In his hand he held the cactus as plain and unfitting as the others had been. She hoped he didn’t want a refund, yet she couldn’t blame him. He said nothing for a while as they stared at the water together. And then

“Life is like that.” He reflected, as if speaking to himself.  “Can any of us really master the currents of time? Perhaps though, it’s not to understand, but to survive, and in so doing bloom.”

She looked at him, emptiness in her eyes, as his words slowly sank past the emptiness.
“Each to its own belongs, and given the chance life blossoms with us.”

He placed the last cactus in her hands and then walked away. It should join its own then she reflected lifting it higher… But what was that? She paused looking closer against the sharp points of its calloused stem, there rested a tiny bud, a contrast of color against pain. It belonged yet didn’t fit. Life, her, she would understand. Taking the cactus home that night, she would dream, in the field her cactus would grow and somehow beyond all the rain, the sun was breaking through……