Jupiter in Motion
I am not an illusion, though truth be told, I thought I was. Me, the invisible girl I thought no one could see. But you pushed the envelope, moved me forward when I would have taken a step back until I found a valid reason to stop. Any excuse to put on the brakes and pull away, with no intention of beginning.
A Moment of Possibility
She cannot think of a single thing to say, so tied up is her tongue, now that they're alone on the porch. And she could kill her friend for leaving her out there with him to fend for herself. To sink. Or to swim.
She sits back in her chair, thinking for a moment of what she should or maybe shouldn't say. She is intrigued by him. By things he's already said out in the other room. His explanations, which to others might seem too long and impractical seem just right to her. She sneaks a peek at him from beneath her lashes, noting the strength of his jaw, the character of his face, the tall leanness of his body and hair she's already imagining running her fingers through.
His cell phone rings and saves her from having to start the conversation while he answers in a language she cannot understand. She could listen to the timbre of his voice for hours, heavily accented and yet fluid in his native tongue. He looks up at her and seems to really look at her, "I'm sorry honey," he says, offering her an apology for having answered his phone. And she finds herself smiling, telling him it's okay while he says a few syllable's more and then neatly ends his call. "Now where were we?" he asks, giving her a smile.
In the space of a few minutes she puts to him her questions, learning about the country from which he came, and how long he'd been here. He tells her that his family was originally from Europe, Bosnia to be exact. And she admits to having the world's worst geography skills, telling him she has no idea where to find it on a map. He asks her if she knows where Italy is. And she laughs, at his description of Italy, "You know the country of the boot with the too high heel," he says.
They continue talking, alone on the porch with only the moonlight for company. And she apologizes for not remembering his name. "Armie," he says, "Like an army of one." She rolls his name off her tongue, liking the sound of it on her lips. At some point, after they'd talk more about his job, and he said she should stop in to see him some time, they went inside. She shot her best friend a look across the room, a thank you but I'd like to kill you all the same sort of face, flushed with a dreamy smile.
All too soon the night came to a close, ending with a mass departure of voices drifting off into the night. And though theirs was an ordinary goodbye at best, she couldn't help but hope that he might entertain the thought of wanting to see her again.
She sits back in her chair, thinking for a moment of what she should or maybe shouldn't say. She is intrigued by him. By things he's already said out in the other room. His explanations, which to others might seem too long and impractical seem just right to her. She sneaks a peek at him from beneath her lashes, noting the strength of his jaw, the character of his face, the tall leanness of his body and hair she's already imagining running her fingers through.
His cell phone rings and saves her from having to start the conversation while he answers in a language she cannot understand. She could listen to the timbre of his voice for hours, heavily accented and yet fluid in his native tongue. He looks up at her and seems to really look at her, "I'm sorry honey," he says, offering her an apology for having answered his phone. And she finds herself smiling, telling him it's okay while he says a few syllable's more and then neatly ends his call. "Now where were we?" he asks, giving her a smile.
In the space of a few minutes she puts to him her questions, learning about the country from which he came, and how long he'd been here. He tells her that his family was originally from Europe, Bosnia to be exact. And she admits to having the world's worst geography skills, telling him she has no idea where to find it on a map. He asks her if she knows where Italy is. And she laughs, at his description of Italy, "You know the country of the boot with the too high heel," he says.
They continue talking, alone on the porch with only the moonlight for company. And she apologizes for not remembering his name. "Armie," he says, "Like an army of one." She rolls his name off her tongue, liking the sound of it on her lips. At some point, after they'd talk more about his job, and he said she should stop in to see him some time, they went inside. She shot her best friend a look across the room, a thank you but I'd like to kill you all the same sort of face, flushed with a dreamy smile.
All too soon the night came to a close, ending with a mass departure of voices drifting off into the night. And though theirs was an ordinary goodbye at best, she couldn't help but hope that he might entertain the thought of wanting to see her again.
Too Much of a Worry Wart
Very odd dreams last night featuring a full cast of characters, stairs without handrails or landings, gardens made completely of stone, and an overall theme that burdens should not be a solitary effort.
If I were to pick it apart, I know that one of those efforts is my daughter and this week we've spent apart. And though I know it's a good thing for her to get in some extra time with her father while the summer months allow, I can't help but miss her to distraction when she's gone. And of course, I worry...
Worry that her Dad doesn't always make the best choices when it comes to what she watches on TV, what time she goes to sleep, whether she eats a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner or dines on a mountain load of empty calories, or if she's outside without supervision in the yard. My worries and the list of them are endless.
And yet I do know that she is safe there. That he takes care of her in his own way, and that she enjoys the temporary escape out from under her Mother's thumb. The ten year old wisdom that announces to the world that her Mother is much more than just a tad bit overprotective and that as far as trusting the world at large, her Mom doesn't subscribe to it. Not one little bit...
I laugh to myself thinking how much now I sound like my Grandma Angie. I can remember her fretting away each time my sister and I were on the loose. She had a way of saying "Ooooh," every time she caught site of us playing in the yard dangling from trees or sneaking into the forbidden broken down barn out back to look for buried treasures. "You girls," seemed to be the way she started every sentence, though it could finish in a number of different ways. One thing however always held true, Grams had constant agida over us.
If I were to pick it apart, I know that one of those efforts is my daughter and this week we've spent apart. And though I know it's a good thing for her to get in some extra time with her father while the summer months allow, I can't help but miss her to distraction when she's gone. And of course, I worry...
Worry that her Dad doesn't always make the best choices when it comes to what she watches on TV, what time she goes to sleep, whether she eats a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner or dines on a mountain load of empty calories, or if she's outside without supervision in the yard. My worries and the list of them are endless.
And yet I do know that she is safe there. That he takes care of her in his own way, and that she enjoys the temporary escape out from under her Mother's thumb. The ten year old wisdom that announces to the world that her Mother is much more than just a tad bit overprotective and that as far as trusting the world at large, her Mom doesn't subscribe to it. Not one little bit...
I laugh to myself thinking how much now I sound like my Grandma Angie. I can remember her fretting away each time my sister and I were on the loose. She had a way of saying "Ooooh," every time she caught site of us playing in the yard dangling from trees or sneaking into the forbidden broken down barn out back to look for buried treasures. "You girls," seemed to be the way she started every sentence, though it could finish in a number of different ways. One thing however always held true, Grams had constant agida over us.
