SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

Profile - Archive�- RSS
Guestbook - Email - Diaryland

Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Tuesday, Dec. 10, 2002 @ 10:42 pm
YVR



The moon is leaning heavy against the clouds, lazy boy, lazy me. The wind is neither cold nor warm, hazy night, hazy me, mazy mind. Twisted, mirrored walls, glass doors, just watch the floor.

It's 10:30am and I roll over in bed. Two phone calls. Roll back over. No sheep to feed, no cells to separate. I slip out of consciousness into a feverish sleep, dreams mixing with the sounds of the new baby next door and the tractors in the barnyard.

Later I'm painting salmon, red in the tumbling rivers. Colours mixing well with a creative fevered mind. Then there's music. Time to play, my fingers weak and uncalloused, why oh why do I never find the time??

Then it's time to meet with Mr. K. It's been so long, it has to happen, I have to be alive. I curled my hair for him. I stole 3 hours from him, between his interviews and his flight.

I drove him out to the airport. Surely he does not realize my romance with the airport, how it's surreal, magical, soooo wiiide ooooopen. Whooooosh. And there we were, him with his bags piled on the ground around him, me with keys dangling from one hand and heart from the other. Well, it's goodbye for now, for later. And we hug. And we rest our foreheads on each other and wait. Brainwaves jitter and snap through our skulls. The winds blows my hair all around me, and I can see how this looks from the outside, from over there.

I'm driving away into the dark. Out back home. Thick dark clouds hang over the city, and there's a clearing light to the south. It's the sun setting in some distant cloud-free place.


Roots | Shoots