Perhaps I Will Stop Talking
When I Realize I Am Just Sitting Here
Perhaps this is where we are meant to stay.
And there he is. A cold night, the wind whispering secrets of rain, and a possible fog come the morning hours. Sitting. The grass damp from sprinkler water, the scent of dirt drifting slightly above the fine blades. The sun bends over a horizon of birch trees, and maple, sending its final farewells to the living world. A diamond is in the distance, belonging to the field ahead, the crack of a ball meeting a bat echoes persuasion. But, it is only an echo, and the memory of middle school baseball follows, though five years later, seventh grade becomes faint, and seems to lower itself with the sun.
What can I do?
And there am I. I swallow thoughtfully; there is not much I can ponder of to say. There are answers to these things, but never questions. Who does he think he is, to be the one creating the questions all of the sudden? Unlike him, I can smell and sense the dripping maple leaves beyond the diamond, what I sense is irony. But I can never tell him that. My hand travels over the cold, hollow metal of a crutch, and
into his. Worn and clammy.
I lift. My chin rises to the sunset; I squeeze the top of my eyelids to their bottom. I lower. My head falls down, and I open my eyes to my hand in his. I bring my eyes to his level, though he is staring straight ahead. Never turning his head, he cannot seize his thoughts. Had I before realized just how blue his eyes become when he is lost, I would not turn mine away.
Say nothing.
I tilt my head, and my eyes close in on the diamond. Suddenly, I am able to finally witness what he has been staring at all this time. A hope. There is a dream of mystery awaiting our steps, though we must
travel paths of broken coke bottles, and leave the blackberry bushes of our youth. We must trail their thorns along the hems of our jeans into the world in which we have longed for, reached for.
We are lost. I sense his sea blue eyes piercing my chilled cheek.
How can I do that?
I do not have an answer; all the answers worth promoting have already been discovered. Torn and thrown away, they are useless to myself and his recovery. I breathe. Deeply, and regretfully, I inhale a thick breath of summer promises. How can I make him feel what it is I am thinking? Perhaps if I think the way I feel. But I could never do that, I am too absentminded to promote my own thoughts.
A word. Something inflicts itself into my mind, tears through my thoughts. This is almost painful. This is all I can do to make him understand. This is all I have the power to say, and if he cannot comprehend, I do not know why I am sitting in among these damp blades, beside him, in the first place. Follow your leads, have faith in the spontaneous.
Be.
And there he is. A cold night, the wind whispering secrets of rain, and a possible fog come the morning hours. Sitting. The grass damp from sprinkler water, the scent of dirt drifting slightly above the fine blades. The sun bends over a horizon of birch trees, and maple, sending its final farewells to the living world. A diamond is in the distance, belonging to the field ahead, the crack of a ball meeting a bat echoes persuasion. But, it is only an echo, and the memory of middle school baseball follows, though five years later, seventh grade becomes faint, and seems to lower itself with the sun.
What can I do?
And there am I. I swallow thoughtfully; there is not much I can ponder of to say. There are answers to these things, but never questions. Who does he think he is, to be the one creating the questions all of the sudden? Unlike him, I can smell and sense the dripping maple leaves beyond the diamond, what I sense is irony. But I can never tell him that. My hand travels over the cold, hollow metal of a crutch, and
into his. Worn and clammy.
I lift. My chin rises to the sunset; I squeeze the top of my eyelids to their bottom. I lower. My head falls down, and I open my eyes to my hand in his. I bring my eyes to his level, though he is staring straight ahead. Never turning his head, he cannot seize his thoughts. Had I before realized just how blue his eyes become when he is lost, I would not turn mine away.
Say nothing.
I tilt my head, and my eyes close in on the diamond. Suddenly, I am able to finally witness what he has been staring at all this time. A hope. There is a dream of mystery awaiting our steps, though we must
travel paths of broken coke bottles, and leave the blackberry bushes of our youth. We must trail their thorns along the hems of our jeans into the world in which we have longed for, reached for.
We are lost. I sense his sea blue eyes piercing my chilled cheek.
How can I do that?
I do not have an answer; all the answers worth promoting have already been discovered. Torn and thrown away, they are useless to myself and his recovery. I breathe. Deeply, and regretfully, I inhale a thick breath of summer promises. How can I make him feel what it is I am thinking? Perhaps if I think the way I feel. But I could never do that, I am too absentminded to promote my own thoughts.
A word. Something inflicts itself into my mind, tears through my thoughts. This is almost painful. This is all I can do to make him understand. This is all I have the power to say, and if he cannot comprehend, I do not know why I am sitting in among these damp blades, beside him, in the first place. Follow your leads, have faith in the spontaneous.
Be.