Word & Question, with Drinks

The girl across from me picks nervously at a coaster
Her short, red hair peeking out from under a stylish cap
"Have you been chewing on that?" asks the waiter
We laugh - deep, hearty laughs, and an embarrassed protest
Falls from her lips, too late to stop the uproar
The joke lives on, and many celebrations are marked
By cards of cardboard coasters signed with friendship

In another world, though they have crossed
A glazed, handcrafted mug sits upon Welsh slate
The sorrowful gray of the stone whispers
Of skies and mountains cold and swept by sad winds
But though a few stray tears slide down her cheek
She is happy, for in memory there is a peace
The peace of echoes, and hopes, and family

The Road

"Ever onward," he thought. That was what his grandfather had always said. It was the motto of a life well lived.

His feet rasped lightly across the cool stone tiles. The sun was just slipping inside the room, the light dancing about as the curtains swayed in the morning breeze. He pulled them aside to look out the window, sipping his drink as he did so. The ice rattled in his glass and the chilled rye seemed to drop straight down into the pit in his stomach, where it burned and warmed but did not fill.

His skin tingled with something like anticipation, with the dread of what was coming. From his breast pocket he took a silver chain with a small medallion on the end of it. The source of all his hope, and all his uncertainty, lay in that small, swinging object. He took another drink.

*****

They were drunk. That was nothing, they had been drunk many times before. A silver moon hung low and perfect above the mountains behind her adobe. He held up the bottle of cheap mezcal. It was nearly empty.

"We are sooo pissed right now," he slurred in a bad accent.

She laughed and hit his chest. "You spend one month travelling around Britain and you think you get a lice... a lice," she hiccuped and tried again,"a lie... sins..." she hiccuped again, "to use their... words."

He laughed. "I'm sorry."

"I forgive you, kiss me."

He did. He felt the heat of the fire in her lips, saw the dancing flames reflected in her blue eyes, like two sapphires glowing with drink and lust. Her black hair shimmered in phosphorescent waves. She tasted like mezcal and cigarettes. It was wonderful.

She pressed a hand against his chest, gently this time. Her hand found something in the breast pocket. She pulled her lips away just enough to speak. "What's this?"

"I don't know." He fumbled for a minute with the snap. At last he managed to open the pocket and removed a thin, silver chain with a medallion at the end. On one side was an image of a woman in long flowing robes, standing with her hands down and her palms open, beckoning. Rays of light emanated from her fingertips and the fringe of her cape. There was writing around the edge, probably Latin, he thought, but in the flickering light and the mezcal-fueled haze, he could not be sure. The silver flashed in the firelight, clothing the woman with a warm glow.

'It's beautiful..." she whispered. "What is it?"

"A gift, from an old friend." His eyes misted over and his thoughts trailed off down into the valley of memories. Old sensations prodded at his senses, trying to break through the booze and the fire and the warmth of the girl who was pressed against him. He shook them away and returned the chain to his pocket. "It was nothing," he said.

"It was a beautiful gift," she said.

*****

She awoke to the sound of an engine sputtering, coughing, growling, then finally turning over. Throwing back the curtains, she watched as his El Camino hobbled its way down the gravel path away from her house. A suspicion grabbed ahold of her, and she darted outside, leaving the sheet she had been clutching around her in a twisted mess by their bed. He was already too far away, already beyond the reach of her voice as she called his name, praying him to return. She stood, naked in the morning sun, a hole forming in her stomach, growing and devouring her from the inside.

Her feet were bruised and scratched from racing across the gravel. She noticed that, now, as she turned and stepped gingerly back to the house. The adobe already looked empty. She wondered if she was insane. She didn't know, really, that he was gone, she only knew he had left. Perhaps he would return. Perhaps he only wanted a morning drive in the desert. In that hole inside her, though, she knew that was never how it was. It was always leaving. If she'd ever settled down, it would have been... she thought, anyway, that he would have been her kind. She had left so many, and been left behind by so many. Why did this one hurt?

On the table next to her bed she saw the note.

It breaks my heart, it really does, but I must. There's a bell ringing for me somewhere, and I have to find it.

She flopped back down on the bed and read the note, once, twice, and again. Then she crumpled it and let it fall. Only then did she notice the chain around her neck, the tiny silver pendant that she had seen in the firelight under a full spring moon. She sat there on the edge of the bed, clutching the medal in her hand and whispering words, she knew not which, perhaps a prayer, though she never had.

*****

In the distance he heard the bell at the old Jesuit mission, ringing the six o'clock hour miles away. The sound stirred something inside him, some longing for peace, for beauty. The Wandering One, he called himself. He sought beauty in the world and peace in the calm of nature, the arms of a lover, a travelling companion through life. Roads diverged, recrossing sometimes, but more often leading to new people, new embraces, the desert, the mountains, the forests, the seas, the farmland, all these he had seen and known, and he would know more, always searching. He never wanted to stop searching. The finding did not interest him, but the bell did. It's rich voice called him back to the road. He would visit the bell first. Then the road would lay itself out before him, opening into the distance He knew then what he had known since the night he found the silver chain - it was time to move on. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he could not stay for her. Other roads waited. Other loves and hopes.

He dropped a handful of ice into a glass, splashed a double of rye over it, and took a drink. "Ever onward," he whispered.

Word & Question, Again

I promise I'm working on prose things too. But until they are ready, I want to make sure I get this one up before the end of the month.

Word: Inheritance
Question: What was your first concert?

Inheritance

"Come along," said my roommates

So we did, my lady and I

Across the border, into another state

To hear songs I didn't know too well

A few I did, "Broken Road" for one

Before it was stolen by others to sell

And turned into a country song

They saved the best for last, of course

Played Bojangles for their encore

And a song by that other Band

The plain one, without the Nitty and Gritty

"The Weight" with a bit of Dirt thrown in

An inheritance of song followed us home

Back across the border, through a blinding storm

My lady at rest upon my shoulder

Paying a Debt

I owe some old Word & Question entries. The answers to the questions are hidden. The first is, I think, the better and more important of the two, though I am not completely satisfied. It feels unfinished.

In the Silence After the Rain

Beneath the wide and starry sky

Together we lie, my lover and I

In the mists that follow the rain

With soft caress and fleeting sigh

Our love we give, our life to die

In the silence after the rain

Word: Silence

Question: What's your favorite season?

 

Ascetic Verses

Bare the wall that held the door

Coarse the wood and cold the floor

Upon the stones he stood and prayed

While all around the demons played

A silent war, a hidden rage

For souls they fought upon the stage

For priests and brothers, sisters, daughters

Sons and mothers, virgins, lovers

For holy sinners, drunks and whores

Dramas won on silent shores

Battles joined for hidden stores

The ascetic fights a wordless war

Word: Ascetic
Question: Dare I enter?

In Memoriam, or Something Like It

I wrote this in a pub, remembering someone from my childhood, a face from the past. It's not a very good memoriam, but it's what I had to offer.

Tears never mattered much to me
They never changed the look of things
Or brought back the way they used to be
No home with sun and birds to sing
Just cloudy skies and rolling seas
Which no salty drop could dent
So take another glass of whiskey
And work away to pay your rent
But stop the tiniest moment, see
The smallest part, the larger brings
A drop of cachaça, a step up Mount Shasta
The grace of a moment, and life is spent

Word & Question 12

Here is my long awaited (if not anticipated) entry in this month's Word & Question. For the rest of the entries, visit the lovely Lindsay over at Very Sleepy People.

I fear I have mixed metaphors. I know what I'm trying to say, but question the marketability of this word I would give you. Inconsistent throughout, I never waver from the resolution to use exactly the wrong word.

When whiskey sooths the aching heart
And blues like storm winds howl and sigh
A longing for domestic arts
Or artless trust to walk beside
Is lightened by a choir's praise
And tulips fresh from cool spring rains
Bloom from death, and give away
Instead of grabbing at the reins
And though consolations pass
As flowers fall to rise again
They leave their mark upon the grass
Each petal soft with hopeful stains

Word: domestic
Question: When do the tulips bloom?

Being the Beginning of Maister Balfour's Adventures

As some of you may know, I'm in Britain right now visiting my brother. I'm taking notes along the way and will post as much as I can when I get back. I'll bring you things the way they happen, more or less, maybe through a haze. If you want a more colorful version of our wanderings, pop over to Squire Jon's tale-spinning over In the Between. He started his last night. I promise, it'll all be worth the read. From Cardiff, Cheers.

Word & Question 11

I'm always late to my own turn at hosting. I apologize for the delay, but here it is. If you're curious about the game, check out this page. Next month's host will be Lindsay over at Very Sleepy People. Maybe I answered the question, maybe I didn't. It's all very interpretive.

Day, Night, Morning
Carrots and hummus one warm afternoon
Humid spring breezes that search out the room
Playing cards, music, and crape myrtle blooms
Spiced Cajun rum and a hot air balloon

Street preachers call out the sinners who pass
Doormen in tuxes sell gold made of brass
Drunk in a doorway a man sleeps with trash
Somewhere down the street fly beads and a flash

Glowing lights advertise unseemly things
Trumpets play Armstrong and other jazz kings
Hurricanes dance the piano bar swing
Strippers walk home wearing t-shirt and jeans

Early next morning in Jackson Square
Readers and painters set out all their wares
Sinners drink coffee, eat beignets and stare
At penitents climbing up cathedral stairs.

Word: carrot
Question: Have you noticed?

Word & Question 10

With head hung low in shame, I drag myself in, late, but here.

In which I borrow liberally from sources historical, fictional and musical. Part I of several (maybe):

I'll Call Her Jenny
Across the room you glanced at me
And whistled your way so casually
To where I stood, and gracefully
Endured my dancing disability

You whispered your name soft in my ear
I smelled the perfume of your hair
And ordered us both a beer
Shamelessly starting to stare

You laughed so effortlessly
Charming in your youthful ways
I asked you to play, you asked me to stay
I nodded and whisked you away

All night I lay awake in bed
And contemplated what you said
But so many roads cried, "move along"
So I slipped out the door with the dawn

On the road, in the train, I saw your face
I heard your voice inside my head
A laugh, and a wink, and a stolen grace
And a wallet I'd left by your bed

So carry on, move down the line
Let there always be plenty of beer and wine
And my boots, and my hat, are ever signs
That I'm not the staying kind.

Word: disability
Question: Why can't I remember your name?

A St. Valentine's Day Tale

Remember not, O Lord, our offenses, nor those of our fathers; neither take Thou vengeance on our sins.

Dusk fell later than the Monday before. Piles of snow still lined the roads, and the fields were more white than brown. Still, a hint of spring blew through the air and brought a smile to the young man's face as he opened the doors of St. Patrick's Church.

The lights were low. In the loft the choir prepared for Mass, while up by the altar the servers were rehearsing their parts. He found a spot near the front and knelt down to pray silently. Gradually people filtered into the church. Two of these were a woman about his age, and a young girl of six or seven. The woman he knew; she was a friend. They entered the pew beside him, the woman introducing him to the girl.

A bell rang and they stood as Mass began. The pipe organ's majestic strains filled the old church, and the smell of incense wafted out of the swinging thurible, lifting their prayers to heaven.

To any outsiders they could have been a family, and when he realized this, the man laughed a little inside. He offered his Mass for them, for his friends. Man, woman, and child they prayed the Mass together, bringing themselves to the altar. When the last bell had sounded, and the choir had ceased singing, they returned to the church doors, where the little girl asked questions of the young priest, and the woman told excitedly of her retreats in preparation for entering the religious life. Above them the organist continued to play until the roar of the pipes filled the church and moved their souls.

At last the time to go home had come. As the church doors swung closed behind him he offered a prayer of thanks to St. Valentine for such a beautiful evening, and smiled.