It smells of everything summer: I walk in mannered footsteps
– stilted and out of place from the casual saunter of the glistening tanned
bodies.
I lie here in the sand and fall in love with the way the sun
can momentarily paralyze my frame by its sheer power and magnificence. The
sound of elated cries, wordless chatter and laughter are captured by the wind
and scamper lightly up my skin – playfully toying with the folds in my dress
and tossing about my loose and unkempt hair. Groups of boys flicking bleached
frayed hair, run spiritedly by; their bulky physiques pumping sweat and relief
from their bombshell shoulders. And further down the beach, young teenagers
siphon alcohol from their bloodstream when their eyes become too frosted over
with the steam of their summer loves’ kisses. As far away from myself as I was
able to situate, large clusters of girls leave their skin out in the sun to
dry, that the crust of their figures will capture the attention of the ocean
eyed boys.
What a lovely day to run away. With work, family, friends,
and other responsibilities screaming for my attention I could bear the war on
my time no longer; I was being spread far too thin. So, I conveniently
contracted a horrible virus which I called into my boss with my deepest regrets,
and opportunely left my cell phone at home. I drove and drove, tearing through
one audio-book and into the next and continued on without stopping until I hit
water.
I didn’t whisper a word of my leaving to anyone, and it was
so freeing.
It felt so liberating to be alone, with just myself, my
secrets, my thoughts, and my dreams. Finding any time to write is difficult
with my being so hard pressed for time, which leaves me so impossibly trapped
because I say so much more with my fingers than my tongue; real words with real
feelings, not my pretensive babble I am liable to spout out at every given
opportunity.
I am so entirely carried off in the season of summer. I feel
overcome with the desire to stand on the spot where the sea kisses the shore
and feel the sand being swept from beneath my toes. Or to stand high on the tips
of the nearby cliff rocks, caught between the safety: solemn and unchanged, and
the danger: wild and unpredictable. Or to swim out until my arms and legs
become too exhausted to take another stroke, to sink slowly to the blackest
deep, and gaze into the belly of the beast with the skin of my own two eyes.
How romantic of a thought.
The air is so different here. Full of spices, and nostalgia;
it brings out the old romantic in me. I breathe in the warmth, the peace, and the
autonomy and breathe out the stress, the tears, the worries, the sadness, and
the fear that I have allowed to overwhelm me recently. I picked up (yet another)
job this past week. I hate money and consumerism, but unfortunately we cannot
go through this life without either.
This new change of pace actually hasn’t been too dreadful; I
am a maid for exceptionally wealthy individuals. My boss says that we are above
the work we do, that what we do is menial and lowly, but I don’t agree. I truly
do not believe that I am above anyone, no matter their status. However, this
new work has really been quite the fuel for my creativity. I have been
imagining tales of murder, adventure, romance, tragedy, comedy and mystery. I
spend hours a day just dreaming up beautiful narratives, which is something
that I haven’t had little time to do, a deep passion that I had almost forgotten
entirely.
However, there has been a downside. One of the houses that I
worked at (A beautiful several million dollar home with custom furniture and
architecture) caused me to absolutely decide that I would never want to be
wealthy, and realize just how perfectly blessed I was for my humble
upbringings.
This is what transpired: a mother of three came bursting
through front door halfway through my shift, arms heavy laden with shopping
bags, and a baby in the crook of one arm. She pushed her jeweled sunglasses up
onto her bleached hair, her French tip acrylic nailed hand flying through the
air as she spoke to me. “My friend’s brother is getting married this weekend,
and by Gods will I must find the perfect dress. I am leaving little Denver with
the boys. They can take care of him just fine, they have done it before after
all, but lord knows I can’t take another minute of him.” And her high heels on
the travertine clicked hurriedly away as she dropped the baby off in his crib,
and hastily ran out the door. I thought nothing of it until I heard a loud, “Mom?
Mom??” from upstairs and with a pounding of quickened feet on the steps; out
into the living room rushes out the two boys she had referenced, looking no
older than seven. “Did our Mom come home?” They ask me, looking hopeful. “Yes,
but she just left.” Looking disappointed they ran off. Now, I doubt I need to
explain the reasons why I was so upset, and just how horribly irresponsible,
and disgraceful that type of behavior is. Leaving a newborn in the hands of two
six or seven year old boys to go shopping because you are “sick of them” is
simply disgustingly selfish, and negligent.
Now, perhaps I am being too judgmental; but perhaps I’m not.
Anyways, That is in short the extent of my life. But now, I
have a desperate ache to fulfill all things above mentioned, and yes, be
jealous that I have to sleep in my car tonight.
~C
When I think of you, I think of ocean ripples under a
dream-like sky in the vast universe, a blue on blue on blue quilt, patched
together between a handful of sunrises and sunsets.
I think of that burning June afternoon when I stumbled into
your room with a fistful of tears and a map of the world, with plans to drive
as far north as I could and never return to this brokenhearted place with its
one night neon motel signs and suburban bass back-beats. Your suitcases were
strewn across the carpet and your clothes draped on sun stained furniture, your
deep eyes focused on the crashing surf just beyond your window. I whipped
jagged shards of my broken little heart at your fingers and asked if you could
stitch them together and you did, you did, kicking aside
neatly stacked cotton shirts and unfolding a yarn knit sweater for cold lonely
nights and draping it across my shoulders.
I sobbed into your shoulder and you rocked my tear stained
body in your arms until I managed to drag myself to lean against your
wallpaper, your smooth words rolling from your tongue and pouring into my
fractured veins. I could never forget the salty tints you washed from my eyes
with your windblown marine heartbeat that day, the day you told me I didn’t
need to be perfect to be loved.
