A Night On A Wharf
The couple decide to walk. The boardwalk still lit at this late hour guides them. They walk hand in hand,..whispering softly with small talk...solemn.,. lonely , yet together. The walk is much further then they thought, and they move to the beach and remove there shoes feeling the cool evening sand below them.
The moonlight path stretches to them unevenly over rippled waters. They gaze...pause...illuminated, and gather peace with the rhythmatic clapping of the waves over empty shores. They walk slowly..lost in thought...there stride on slow pace.
The couple is troubled...they come here for healing.
Far removed from frenzied urban wear, there backs scarred....they wearily push on.
The boardwalk is silent...beach is vast, long...where hundreds lied just few hours before...for sunhone band-aids.
The wharf lies ahead..reaching , long...menacingly into the sea. The waves slap at its sides harmlessly. He pulls her hand, as they climb over huge stones cut by prehistoric waters. Fingerprinted many times over. The climb is tiring, but invigorating. They slow there, climb and aim towards the perch, where fisherman tell tales of magical visions and the discarding of locked cerebral secrets, moments of found youth, healing and rapture.
They sit, she sits between his legs, her back against his chest...slunk down so her soft hair tickles slightly his unshaven cheek. She smells sweet, clean ,natural...like a woman. He can feel her heartbeat through her back on his chest...steady....evenly. They whisper to each other...kiss softly and caress each other cheeks......wishing for the best..
They stare at the night, dark purple skies lit with scattered stars...accompanied by birds bellowing to them. They are lost in thought and prayer as a slight fog rolls in...clouding the path of moonlight over the sea...but picking up its tint of color...it forms in thin wisps, like soft rolling hair across a womans face on a windy day.
They watch , mesmerized...and talk, openly....of the ones, some here, some long gone.., that shaped them...reared them , taught them...of the ones they miss...The ones that carried with them answers for questions they never knew...
The ones that left marks in the chambers of there hearts...
They come here because they have forgotten...they come for resolution....they come to be blessed.
They come for remembrances of their words and actions, that once loomed so important, have recently layed dormant.
They come to see, hear and be reminded of the happiness gone astray. And to, for the sanctuary, like an enclosed glass capsule…bottled, poured for them…washed over bodies and psyches needing repair.
She clings tight to him..he squeezes her hard...and wraps his arms firmly around her back and across her chest to warm her as the fog swirls into clouds, shapes..gathering substance to form faces, images.....wispy angels, puffy snowman...pillowy cotton....
...they look hard..hearing...and see faces ,ears, noses and mouths of there loved ones...and gentle but eerie words.....faith, hope....they hear voices...startling them.....noises.. familiar.......
They are not alone....
They hold each other, closer than close….
He sees his fallen grandfather, holding his cigar case, the one he fought for as a boy. His brother,..hair still bright red...same smile .He can hear that same contagious laugh, the one that earned him class clown in high school., and unlimited admirers. He remembers a time, in their family, when the boys kissed their parents good night. And how as they grew older, they seemed to grow out of it. And being surprised, when home from college, seeing his 22 year old brother still doing it…and doing so , unabashedly….and myself, his older brother, feeling oh so much younger, smaller…but in awe, at his complete freedom of emotion .
The boyhood friend who made his car his coffin.....the old man who lived next door and smiled at him every day..the older couple who lived across the street but went to Florida every year.
She sees her father , holding her daughter taken much too young , with strong arms , letting her know he's watching her now……. Her favorite teacher....
They sit still, .tears pouring down cheeks...numb…
They see themselves as children. Carefree…laughing, playing in sandboxes with plastic shovels. In playgrounds under the watchful eyes of their parents, their siblings grabbing at wanted blue toys. Stretching thin little frames over monkey bars while dangling precariously. The first red wagon, that lost its first wheel. Our first Sunday mass with new black shoes, or the red ribbon in the hair , in the picture that grandma kept of you in her living room. Coming home with paint stained hands from their kindergarden art class…and seeing Mom hang that picture hang proudly on the refrigerator endlessly till the fragile corners and yellowed paper no longer bore the strength
They see bonnets, carriages..carrying future grandchildren...with faces , yet unborne...they see promise...they see children..older on grassy knolls...tripping over kite string...being chased by puppies...they hear the shrieks of laughter cascading over the waves now...like medicine, enveloping there brittle souls. Nurturing them …tending to their wounds. They cling to each other so tightly, their knuckles white….sobbing unabashedly…
They carry themselves home..wordless…but reborne....from hope brings promise. They rediscover each other thouroughly later under quilted covers. While cradling each other like newbornes.
Sometimes it’s a funeral, a birth, a death that ignites us, restores us…pauses us and has us run on slow motion, to regroup…re-inspect what’s important. These are reminders are how lucky we are….or could be. It’s not exactly chance..rather faith..and stepping , not forward, but back, carefully…like tip-toeing over broken glass, but doing so with conviction. To a blissful resurrection.
Copyright © chris falvey | Year Posted 2016