It was a Sunday not too much unlike today. Sunny, warm, light breeze off the water. Typical pleasant spring day here in the Northwest. What was nice about that particular day was that you were working up the block. You had a half hour break coming to you, so made it over to my house. Just enough time for a quick lunch, coffee, chat, whatever.
Funny how folks come and go out of our lives, how some become players in the grand drama of our lives in bigger ways than we ever expected them to.
When that decisive player arrived on the scene we were horizontal on the couch, testing each other on the finer points of French linguistics. We heard a someone hit the porch with their feet and then, just like good civil servants do during earthquake drills, we ducked, rolled and covered.
After the big shock we had some serious questions on hand that needed answering. Had we been seen? Did we dare answer the door? Who in the hell comes over to someone's house on a sunny Sunday afternoon unannounced?
Well, we straightened up and pretended everything was a-ok. "Lack imagination and miss the better story" indeed. Our imaginations were running overtime when we got up, straightened out our story and opened the door. It was my old school teacher friend, back from a kayak run. "Come on in" I said with a forced and cheery smile. Introductions all the way around, and with that, with your eye on the clock and your conscience, you took off back to work.
I don't think that my old pal, in the midst of her storytelling and coffee, ever thought twice about the scene she fell into. I had already been on my own for almost a year. My pal was a good friend of The Estranged One but it didn't seem to matter too much that day. She and I had always gotten along well and that in itself proved to be an incredibly valuable commodity to have in my pocket back in those days.
Later on, after my friend left for the day, I went outside and did that little walk up the stairs to see what I could see. If she behaved like most folks she was looking ahead when she ascended the steps. She may have looked into the house, but at the pace she was keeping she would have only seen a glimpse of the kitchen and an even narrower slice of the living room. Try as she might she would have never seen the contents of the couch. Little did we know that that afternoon we had been in the clear.
It doesn't take too much to conjuer up the memory of that day on days like today. I can still see you across the street, hitting the corner of the prosecutor's building, giving me that little wave before you disappeared . That old friend of mine hasn't been around for awhile but responded to an open question I left in a post yesterday. She'd like to help me out with a store run, she said, would like to assist me in getting some bags of soil home. Very kind of her. After interrupting our lunchtime French lessons that's the least she can do.
Pity we didn't have sense to stay put on the floor that day, but that's what forks in the road are for. For picking and choosing which path in life you want to take. We took the high road that day. We always did.
Love, your WHMB
Funny how folks come and go out of our lives, how some become players in the grand drama of our lives in bigger ways than we ever expected them to.
When that decisive player arrived on the scene we were horizontal on the couch, testing each other on the finer points of French linguistics. We heard a someone hit the porch with their feet and then, just like good civil servants do during earthquake drills, we ducked, rolled and covered.
After the big shock we had some serious questions on hand that needed answering. Had we been seen? Did we dare answer the door? Who in the hell comes over to someone's house on a sunny Sunday afternoon unannounced?
Well, we straightened up and pretended everything was a-ok. "Lack imagination and miss the better story" indeed. Our imaginations were running overtime when we got up, straightened out our story and opened the door. It was my old school teacher friend, back from a kayak run. "Come on in" I said with a forced and cheery smile. Introductions all the way around, and with that, with your eye on the clock and your conscience, you took off back to work.
I don't think that my old pal, in the midst of her storytelling and coffee, ever thought twice about the scene she fell into. I had already been on my own for almost a year. My pal was a good friend of The Estranged One but it didn't seem to matter too much that day. She and I had always gotten along well and that in itself proved to be an incredibly valuable commodity to have in my pocket back in those days.
Later on, after my friend left for the day, I went outside and did that little walk up the stairs to see what I could see. If she behaved like most folks she was looking ahead when she ascended the steps. She may have looked into the house, but at the pace she was keeping she would have only seen a glimpse of the kitchen and an even narrower slice of the living room. Try as she might she would have never seen the contents of the couch. Little did we know that that afternoon we had been in the clear.
It doesn't take too much to conjuer up the memory of that day on days like today. I can still see you across the street, hitting the corner of the prosecutor's building, giving me that little wave before you disappeared . That old friend of mine hasn't been around for awhile but responded to an open question I left in a post yesterday. She'd like to help me out with a store run, she said, would like to assist me in getting some bags of soil home. Very kind of her. After interrupting our lunchtime French lessons that's the least she can do.
Pity we didn't have sense to stay put on the floor that day, but that's what forks in the road are for. For picking and choosing which path in life you want to take. We took the high road that day. We always did.
Love, your WHMB
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