Creative Writing #15: The Beginning

   The sky rose in shades of blue, almost powder near the horizon, a rich, full, piercing color at the peak, at the summit of the sky above our heads.  The harbor was blue, too, and sound of waves and pebbles and shorebirds greeted our ears, a welcome sound, to be sure.  A little white lighthouse stands at the end of the old stone wharf, which has sat there for countless generations.  The lighthouse is not particularly old, perhaps less than a century, and it makes one wonder if purists objected to its placement at some point.  But, the lighthouse was not on my mind at the time, for there on the end of the wharf stood two people, holding each other in the face of the bitter sea-wind, oblivious to the cold, perhaps not noticing the seagulls dropping their hapless prey against the rocks below in hopes of a meal.  They stood together, and the sunlight and the wind seemed to work together to make her soft hair blow into his face, and she thought he minded.  She thought he minded when, in reality, he had always wanted this.  He is me.  The only sea green I see is in her eyes, though I’m surrounded by the sea on nearly every side.  And with every second of seeing her smile at me, and smiling back, my mind races.  How did this happen to me?  How do I deserve something so precious?  I hold in my arms on that pier a crown jewel that is stronger than steel and yet more delicate than a glass flower.  How did this wonder come to me?  Her head leaned on my shoulder, and I cannot express (no one can, I think,) the feeling of being present in someone else’s heart.

  Our old souls were finally there with our minds as we stored up the memories we knew we’d need, just as the countless ships that had also left the wharf stored up provisions there for the storms they knew they’d face ahead.  I could hear her breathe, see her eyes gently close momentarily, and I knew she was trying to remember this because I was doing the same.  Her hands felt so warm when we walked up and down the living, ebbing shell-strewn shore, though I knew those delicate hands must be colder than ice to her, and I wished I could warm them better.   I realized that I want to walk every beach in the world, but not alone.  Never alone.  I want to see the world through two pairs of eyes, not just one.  I could not help but smile then, in daylight or moonlight when I looked into those deep, deep eyes, and I still break out smiling even now that we’re a thousand miles apart and I miss her more than my feeble words can tell.
Night came, though, and we found ourselves on a wooden dock near the shoulder of the wharf again, drawn to the sounds of the sea, listening to the creakings of the old tall ship that stood moored there, the wharf's embrace sheltering the vessel from the wind.  A pleasant metaphor, I think.  I cannot remember the moon, but the lights by the water played on the gentle night waves, and I twirled her around once, though I have not danced for years.  We ran through the streets from the cold, because the wind bit through our coats and froze us.  The snow falls and chills the ground, but below the earth is a fire that is warm.  So it was with us.  Our hearts were warm, though we were chilled to the marrow.  

Caroline King said The old wharves are lonely places now, stretching out their arms for ships that never come to port.  I, too stand under the blue sky and the burning sun in the fierce wind, arms outstretched, lonely and waiting for that vessel of wonder, miles and miles away, to return to my embrace.  I pray that is soon.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” - A.A Milne

For her side of this, much more eloquently put, visit http://thedancingladybug.blogspot.com/