I tried to put the road closer to the shore. It always seemed to drift away.
I saw the lights ahead and the trees surrounding the pavement. It was always stright ahead even thoug the many curves, making the the trees dance in the wind the faster it got.
I tried to get you closer to the ocean but your road never seem to be going there. I I tried to get your feet in the sand, your hair in the wind and your heart in the sunshine. I tried to get your road to the waves but your road didn’t listen and neither did you. I tried.
If the road wouldn’t lead you, I would. Convince you to take off your shoes and relax for a bit, sit down and enjoy the view. You didn’t feel it, you didn’t do it. Because that wasn’t your road, that wasn’t your beach, that wasn’t your view.
That was all mine, I just tried to borrow you for a while.
I loved words. I love to sing them and speak them and even now, I must admit, I have fallen into the joy of writing them. — Anne Rice
It was my father who taught me to cook. I was home from school that day, for what reason I can’t remember but my mother was working and my father was at home. We were told by my mother the day before that we should cook pasta and that she had prepared everything else. I had just learnt how to boil rice and told my dad I didn’t need any help.
As I put the pot on the stove I poured in the pasta directly in the water, my father came. He didn’t laugh, but smiled and said calmly that the pasta should be put just when the water boils. I asked why we had to wait that long, then the pasta would never be done by the time my mother comes back from work. I remember looking up to my father while he was explaining, admiring him that he knew so much about so many things. I don’t remember all he told me about pasta, I was busy and concentrated thoughts to admire him.
Another memory I have of my father is when I was about 5 years old. I had this red comfy jumpsuit of velour and my hair was down to my shoulders. I had lost my front tooth when bicycling with the kids from the neighbourhood. I was now standing in front of the piano. In my world, it was big as a whale but I liked it as it could make sounds. I was really stubborn this day and not willing to go to bed as I was told. The melody I was playing was just in my own head and my father who was standing beside me tried to convince me to not hit the piano as hard. I obviously didn’t listen. My father sat down next to me and talked with a soft and slow voice. After a while I did reckon he was actually talking to me. I took one hand of the piano and put it in my mouth, I looked at him like I was ashamed of doing something bad. He told me would play tomorrow, together and perhaps even for a longer time but that it was time to go to bed now. I looked at him, his white wavy hair was shining as always and his moustache ended in small circles on each side of his mouth. His lines were defined by the eyes, my father was a happy man, smiling often and this was shown in the wrinkles around the eyes. His glasses tipped a bit down his nose and his voice was calm and soft. he breathed authority but gave a lot of love. I took away my other hand from the piano and put my arms around his neck and closed my eyes. I felt safe as he lifted me up and stood up him self. Come here you little frog, he said, let’s get you to bed.
she pretended to sleep when he was on his way out. Without opening her eyes she heard him stopping by the door and turning back. She smiled. She knew he would come back. And so he did. He kissed her forehead gently and she put her naked arm around his neck, pulling him back to the heat under the cover. He didn’t protest. The album was still on repeat and still there was one sock missing.
Air was dry but still humidity touched the skin. Many feet, many different shoes covered the white shiny floor. The uniform that he wore was almost brand new. It fitted him perfectly even though he seemed to be misplaced in the corner where he stood. People around him were quiet as the people further out from him were more relaxed and chatty. If this was due to his presence he couldn’t say. He was nervous. The face he’d put on was calm and strict but not emotional in any way. It just was.
Nevertheless no one could feel his palms getting really warm and then turn in to perspiration. He squeezed his hands rather than dry them on his pants. He didn’t want anyone to notice. He was thinking about his family, whom he had left crying by the departures hall and who had waved to him while he passed security. He felt like a boy not wanting to leave them. He’d also never felt this much of an adult, seeing the respect the security guys gave him and the silence of respect people around surrounded him with. He was twisted but probably more scared than anything else.
He didn’t know what was awaiting him. He didn’t know what it looked like over there. he didn’t know anyone. He just knew he did this to be proud and for someone. He couldn’t remember who this someone was right now. Was it his parents or his future captain? Or was it to be received at home in 8 months as a hero? Yeah that was it. He was going away with sweat on his hands in order to become a hero. But what was it actually that he was to do? What do you do to become a hero? His mind speeded up the thoughts.
She turned her sight to him, noticing the difference he made of the crowed. He catched his eyes immediately and she exchanged a warm look with him. Then she saw his uniform and her look changed, her eyes narrowed and her faced was stoned. It was like she was turning in to a statue. Not being able to move. Her eyes found his again and she gave him a look that was more as an apology than excitement. he couldn’t read this.
Boarding started and people started to get up from the chairs. He was already standing and he had not left his eyes from the girl. It was his last chance to either be a boy or a man. Either he’d face the truth right here and now or he would do it once facing his destination. He had the uniform and the moustache but the inside of the costume was the one of a lost boy getting lost in a world he’d never be able to picture beforehand. He was lost once he stepped in to that plane and someone already knew it. He walked and was almost next to the girl.
his kisses were like the rain, wet. They got in to places which were supposed to be hidden. only to stay and get through the skin, making the body shiver. wet. Cold. Clothes getting heavy, gravity pulling, winning. Earth shaking, summer was arriving. Sun burning the skin. Surface suffocating of his breath. Passion.
… she was longing for his words, just like she would for water in the desert. It was unbearable. His letters were an addiction that was impossible to control. Only he could solve that issue. But he was doing nothing and this was bringing her to a slow death. The words. Unspoken. Unwritten. The words were his weapon and he had just stared a war against her…