Silent Witnesses
September 4th 2007 15:12
The street was abandoned at this hour. Falling the rain whispered. Its quiet character filled the dense night as willingly as it did the cobbled cracks and gutters. In this still dark of a quarter to midnight it was to be a witness. A witness to those moments of solitude the restless cling to.
Old Grandma Jean stared into the eyes of her dead lover on the distant beach of her dreams. Fifty-cent saltwater taffy kept them from going hungry. The wrinkles ironed out and the scars torn from existence this was a good dream…
The wooden stairs creaked with memory. The kitchen carpet was straggled on the floorboards, drunk with the wine stains of the past autumns celebrations. The home had hosted much joy and love. The pantry savored the smells of fresh cookies and cakes, from scratch of course, and the lolly jar proudly sat always inviting. The photo frames stood decking the mantels, fireplace and bedside tables. All were a gentle reminder of a life lived. The moments captured, sent and framed a testament of all those that love her and if one thing was for certain in this world…Grandma Jean was loved.
The Ferris wheel ascended as Jean’s heart rate climbed with anticipation. Despite her fear Patrick’s firm yet gentle hold dispelled any danger in her eyes. She had a hope when they reached the top that they would take off and fly. Fly together to unimagined places. By his side she felt as if she could accomplish anything. How she missed him, the smile, the feeling of security in his gaze. As they fell back towards the crowd she wished it didn’t have to end…
The wind spoke volumes as it rushed in the upstairs window. It tickled the curtains, stroked the patchwork quilt and left the room to settle once more. It was the last to speak to Grandma Jean. It simply blew through to say goodbye.
From the fairground they had jumped, as one can in dream logic, to the old docking grounds of the harbor. Here she stood, Patrick possessing her essence in an unforeseen embrace. Jean was confused. This dream had played out many times over yet they had never come here. Suddenly before her Patrick aged from young lover to weary husband and her fantasy was betrayed…
Dust had gathered with time of the treasures and trinkets of the attic. It kept hold of the collectables and suitcases of unwanted experiences that we put to the back of the mind. Huddled amongst the junk were the boxes of medical files, the once sturdy crutches and of course the loathed rusty wheelchair.
Old Grandma Jean could not understand. She looked to her own features, again worn by time past, and the threadbare cardigan. Then back at her dying husband withering in his chair. Why had it come to this? As anger shook her she tried in vain to wake. Yet instead she found herself burning, surrounded by light…
The moon was sinking into the break of day as the faded stars watched over the early morning street. Ever still it rained trickling and splashing it cleansed the air as it washed away the sins of the night’s escapades.
Then they were both bathed in light. Patrick no longer held by his bodily constraints approached her. Her confusion had turned to terror and she longed for the nightmare to be over…
Old Grandma Jean lying in her bed stirred with a mumble as she turned her head.
…yet in an instant he reached for her and she rose.
The old clock ticked obediently and the rain patted the roof. She took a deep withdraw of breath and let out a sigh. If anyone had been present it would have been described as a peaceful death.
A sigh of relief.
Leaving herself. Accepting his grasp, trusting his lead they went together to the end of the pier. Now they were solely beings, embodiments of the light. They stepped off the edge, side by side.
They flew.
Old Grandma Jean stared into the eyes of her dead lover on the distant beach of her dreams. Fifty-cent saltwater taffy kept them from going hungry. The wrinkles ironed out and the scars torn from existence this was a good dream…
The wooden stairs creaked with memory. The kitchen carpet was straggled on the floorboards, drunk with the wine stains of the past autumns celebrations. The home had hosted much joy and love. The pantry savored the smells of fresh cookies and cakes, from scratch of course, and the lolly jar proudly sat always inviting. The photo frames stood decking the mantels, fireplace and bedside tables. All were a gentle reminder of a life lived. The moments captured, sent and framed a testament of all those that love her and if one thing was for certain in this world…Grandma Jean was loved.
The Ferris wheel ascended as Jean’s heart rate climbed with anticipation. Despite her fear Patrick’s firm yet gentle hold dispelled any danger in her eyes. She had a hope when they reached the top that they would take off and fly. Fly together to unimagined places. By his side she felt as if she could accomplish anything. How she missed him, the smile, the feeling of security in his gaze. As they fell back towards the crowd she wished it didn’t have to end…
The wind spoke volumes as it rushed in the upstairs window. It tickled the curtains, stroked the patchwork quilt and left the room to settle once more. It was the last to speak to Grandma Jean. It simply blew through to say goodbye.
From the fairground they had jumped, as one can in dream logic, to the old docking grounds of the harbor. Here she stood, Patrick possessing her essence in an unforeseen embrace. Jean was confused. This dream had played out many times over yet they had never come here. Suddenly before her Patrick aged from young lover to weary husband and her fantasy was betrayed…
Dust had gathered with time of the treasures and trinkets of the attic. It kept hold of the collectables and suitcases of unwanted experiences that we put to the back of the mind. Huddled amongst the junk were the boxes of medical files, the once sturdy crutches and of course the loathed rusty wheelchair.
Old Grandma Jean could not understand. She looked to her own features, again worn by time past, and the threadbare cardigan. Then back at her dying husband withering in his chair. Why had it come to this? As anger shook her she tried in vain to wake. Yet instead she found herself burning, surrounded by light…
The moon was sinking into the break of day as the faded stars watched over the early morning street. Ever still it rained trickling and splashing it cleansed the air as it washed away the sins of the night’s escapades.
Then they were both bathed in light. Patrick no longer held by his bodily constraints approached her. Her confusion had turned to terror and she longed for the nightmare to be over…
Old Grandma Jean lying in her bed stirred with a mumble as she turned her head.
…yet in an instant he reached for her and she rose.
The old clock ticked obediently and the rain patted the roof. She took a deep withdraw of breath and let out a sigh. If anyone had been present it would have been described as a peaceful death.
A sigh of relief.
Leaving herself. Accepting his grasp, trusting his lead they went together to the end of the pier. Now they were solely beings, embodiments of the light. They stepped off the edge, side by side.
They flew.
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