“Where are we?” She
looks around. Everything feels like a moving picture — static yet alive,
flat yet three dimensional. A creek nearby marks time with gentle
ripples on the pebbles within. At least that is a given,
time does not
stand still.
“I’m not sure.” He says smiling “I’ve lost track. Should we keep going?”He extends his hand. She takes it. They walk along an unmarked road in silent unison. Luscious green foliage outlines their journey. The distinguishable height difference does not alter the synch in their steps. Each step is taken naturally, each foot at its own pace, yet completely comfortable — at home — in the shared rhythm.
After a moment she stops and gently tugs on his arm in a silent request to face each other. He follows her suggested movement.
She looks at his face, searching for something along the youthful fine lines that define his features.
“Can I help you?” He asks.“I am trying to find you in my memory. How do I know you? I feel like we have met before, long ago perhaps?”
“Please do, I cannot find you in mine. I’ve looked. Your face is engraved in my every thought.”
She smiles. “Ditto.”
“Ditto feels too small a word.” He says.
“I can’t seem to find a better one." She answers. "My sentiments echo
yours and it feels like ditto — a short and fleeting sound capsule that
can hold an un-containable world of depth and meaning.”
“Is that where we are? In a world of depth and meaning?” He asks.
“Or something in between.” She blushes. “If I’m honest, I don’t care about the where, just that you are in it.” He reaches for her hand.
The crimson of her cheeks subsides into a smile. “You always know how to make things comfortable,” she says. “I thought you were the one doing that,” he answers.
He looks at the grass around them, the space has opened up. The trees
that seconds ago delineated their walk now form the outside perimeter on
a wide meadow. The brushstrokes on the grass look ageless —
simultaneously fresh and ancient. Fresh as if the space was just created
to welcome them, ancient in their knowledge of the fellow travelers
that crossed its path. She looks around at the grass hoping to
understand what he is seeing. “What are we looking for?”Touched by the gesture she just nods and smiles. “I do like flowers.”
“What kind of flowers do you like?”
“Possibly all of them. There are a few at the top of my list though there seem to be flowers for me to love on all occasions. Wild bright pink rosed are a particular favorite. I am not sure they are actually called wild, they just have a free look about them as if they grew to their own rhythm… So yes, I love flowers, specially colorful ones.”
“We’ll that’s good. I am sure I will be able to find flowers plural somewhere around here.”
“It’s ok, it’s the thought that counts.” She grabs his hand, intertwining her fingers along his.
The air around them seems to breath, and in a sudden movement a gentle breeze brings them closer together. Beyond them she can see wild roses blooming in all colors, outlining the space that surrounds them. Something falls on her shoulder, she looks up. The trees have bloomed too and jacaranda petals in shades of lavender and blue fall gently towards them. “When did this happen?” She asks surprised.
“I think… while we were speaking, or perhaps as we spoke…” He looks at her, for the first time there is sadness in his eyes. “We have wondered off. It’s almost morning.”
He bends down to pick a flower close to
them, her hand quickly rests upon his gently stopping his action. She
bends down towards the flowers by his hand and takes in the lovely
smell.
“Thank you for my flowers. They smell lovely.”“It shows! And what a perfect arrangement.” She takes a step back to frame the flowers and shrubs between her fingers. “Truly a work of art.” She laughs in delight. Her laugh — a stream of chimes and bubbles that knows no bounds — echos enchantingly through space. He closes his eyes and lets the sound run through him in a hum.
“Come on,
let’s enjoy what’s left of our walk before sunrise catches up with us.”
He opens his eyes. Her hand is extended before him. He takes it.
They
walk into what is left of the night. The soft tendrils of dawn mark
each step. A gust of wind picks up the fallen flower petals from the
ground and swirls them around in a colorful palette of blue hues while
everything transitions into morning..
