Saturday, 30 March 2013

Jonathan Carroll

I want to be sitting somewhere. I want to be sitting somewhere with you. Somewhere as the sun yellows down to orange, and night leaks blue then purple into the sky, like ink dribbled slowly into a glass of water. Far above, the glint of a plane draws a white contrail as vivid as school chalk across the evening canvas. We’re in Greece somewhere by the sea. It’s hot—summer. Or maybe a late Fall day somewhere up north. Crisp, when sunsets come and go quickly so you have to pay full attention or you’ll miss them. Two Adirondack chairs side by side, forest green, or no color at all because they’ve lived out in the hard weather for years. You are telling me a story I’ve never heard before about your childhood. Your voice is quiet and intimate, but also alive and peppery with humor. Your hand is on my arm. I am grinning. I’m grinning because it is you talking and your story is good and I know soon we will rise together and have a wonderful meal where the food and talk will be equally good. Afterwards perhaps we will return to these chairs by the sea, or a forest, a desert, or by nothing important at all to listen to the night, as dense and black by then as the inside of a closed drawer.

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