Beginning a story always holds the rights to the unfolding , in a manner akin to visiting a place, at a certain time, with certain individuals living and breathing , who just now do happen to become those-in this particular place , who at this very moment turn about -
And make their way out the side entrance of the shaded clapboard house, as loosened glass in the door's window quakes. There is a small wind that is fleeting, that passes by their ankles , as they twist summer- hot palms round the doorknob, and firmly pull it shut.
For we see that this is the land of stories waiting to be written, where we come upon Individuals engaging
Thoughts about reheating the thick fragrant pea soup for dinner , considering the fresh tang of sautéed shallots and garlic , dug from the garden just this morning- with the fresh crushed Oregano and Rosemary snipped moments ago from the weed-infested kitchen garden out back.
As the olive oils warms, spatters a bit, before gluten-free bread crumbles into the sautéed mixture, soaking up sodden herbs and caramelized alliums , to be spooned atop each bowl of soup placed upon the long, scarred pine table.
Oh- and the green beans are waiting in the garden, as we stand here,outdoors in near twilight; they are bright yellow and purple and deepest green, and we pick them from the low laden bushes, while conspiring to lure one or two children to come sit round the table and snap off the bean ends, while we concoct an engaging story , with them starting as the fanciful protagonists, off on daring adventures.
Or does it seem more likely that the goings-on in the mind of this protagonist perhaps involves the yet-to-be-fed and then off to bed chickens ? Would you consider perhaps instead the gas bill payment, sealed in in the envelope on the kitchen table ,the taste of the licked envelope lingering in the mouth- the envelope which will need to be walked down round Halligan's Grocery -past Lucille's Hair Shoppe and the Granby Inn's dusty, weed filled parking lot, across Main Street, and up to the gas company , come tomorrow afternoon?
Or are we considering some other unimaginable , yet inept , and far too general possibilities of human distractions , and the unanticipated outcome. as the story wiles away it's time?
Because you may not know that pages are actually now (shhh) being patiently turned, this time, as a reader peers at the small book held quietly in their hands. As they visit in their imagination this small town that comes ever so slowly to life.
As the one reading develops a sense of the moment in time, and slowly begins to notice how the glimpses of lives accumulate
like so many half-hearted wishes - pressed down into an old cracked mason jar, only to be forgotten high on the back shelf of the pale yellow pantry, to fester quietly .
Unbeknownst to anyone who doubts that all this could possibly be true. You know . All this, with the wishes. And festering. And possibility .
Forgotten by all, save the sleepy determined reader; who lays on her side in a simmering hot bedroom, dogs lining the floors and sidling up against sweat slicked legs .
We are watching as a wobbly floor fan makes its interminable sweep, over and over, providing only the most minute relief of a breeze, as it swings by once again.
The cats are stretched out , tufted bellies up , across the bureaus and between the bed pillows .
The other human sleeps fitfully on his back, chest glistening in the impossible summer's heat, as she holds the book on one side ,and then the other, braced against a pile of flat old pillows , covered with soft worn sun-scented pillow cases.
She hears his restlessness increase - the irritable sighs in between snorts and snores. The uncomfortable shifting as he turns and covers sweat-beaded with a pillow, with his love; with his determined patience , knowing that she somehow presses on.
The fatigue of her poor bed partner comes to lean up against her hunger for one more paragraph - before the thoughtfulness in her succumbs, and the bedroom light is snapped off ; allowing at last a thick hot darkness to fall.
So that finally the two of them turn to each other, the book sliding from her hand to the floor.
They are pressing along butter-smooth sheets; they are settling betwixt and between each other, age-old, in a delicious, exhausted embrace.
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