I’m not really here.
I’m walking down the pavement. It feels good to have the
sensation of blood running to my legs, to feel the air entering and leaving my
lungs, to feel my heart pumping, to hear my converse shoes make a slow, duple
meter rhythm against the sidewalk. It feels good to see life. I smell the fuchsia
pink flowers in the street planters. I look to the end of the road where my
current surroundings continue on but shrink. I cannot see very far down the
road as it disappears into the horizon. I could keep walking, passing planter
after planter, building after building, but these particular flowers have
little freckled faces, and they speak to me. They remind me it all starts to
look the same after a while, so I should stop walking. They’re sweet and invite
me to have a seat.
I turn right and enter
the open space between two black iron gates. It’s a long walk down a tight
alleyway. The path begins to change from a boring, square, cement sidewalk to
slate cobblestone where patches of centipede grass are pushing their way
through the cracks. The walkway entrance opens into a large circular patio
where tall, thick trees circle the entire fenced-in area which provides a hedge
of privacy. The patio features a large ornamental, three-tiered, cement water
fountain with a small circular pool underneath collecting tiny waterfalls and
big wishes. Marble topped tables with an ivory and grey shade are placed around
the fountain. I choose one of the tables facing the water. Small yellow lights are in the lip of the
fountain which makes the water shimmer like silver glitter and diamonds. I
watch the liquid crystal bubble at the top of the fountain and pour itself layer
by layer into the bottom pool. The dripping and swooshing sounds of the water trickling
calms me, and I sit in peace just watching and listening to the soft beats. If
I close my eyes, the oscillating pitter-patter sounds convince me that I am in
the shower. I walk close to the fountain to see the ornate detail. I first
notice a shiny layer of copper and nickel covering the pools floor. Each fountain
tier is golden brown and shaped like a toadstool cap with folded up edges to
give it a bowl shape. The bowl’s outer rim reminds me of a pie crusts scalloped
edge. A pineapple shape is at the top where the water flows. The columns
holding it together look like long pirouette cookies side by side. I realize my
hunger has surfaced, and it’s time to order a pastry.
Thick ivy and vines are growing up the coal-black,
spear-topped, iron fences, making it difficult to see what is behind them. It is a private space, yet there is a feeling
of openness. As I pull the chair, the bottom of the metal legs grates and
scrape against the stone street. The seat cushion is royal blue with white and
yellow daisies. It’s a cold seat at first, but I can finally rest. I drink in
the cool, moist, air and my body opens. The day is fresh like the air, and it’s
energizing to have clean breeze to breathe. The forecast predicts blackened
skies and the aura is colored green and gray. No need to look for a shaded
space because the sun is hiding behind the dark clouds that are building and
circling above me. The clouds stand
still until I stare and see the misty vapor crawling away from me. Strands of
white twinkling lights outline the patio where I sit as if I’m surrounded by
fireflies. As I look to the sky to enjoy the dark clouds, I notice nostalgic,
Edison-style 1910 light bulbs strings wrapped around a clear wire and strung
all above the seating area. I wouldn’t have noticed these on a sunny day, but
the dark clouds and gray atmosphere make them glow bright like at nighttime.
Other people are around getting their days started as well. Page
politely greets me as I’m seated and says “I know just what you need.” I’ve
been here many times previously.
While waiting, I pull out my sketch book and
draw whatever silly or twisted doodles come to mind. I love collecting
journals, and there is one for every occasion: the online blog is for the
archiving pictures, recipes, and stories or life updates for the public; the
sketchbook is for potential artistic works whether it be songs, written, or
visual art, the Wreck the Journal is for making a mess when I’m a mess, and the
Dream Journal is saved for dreams. My purple journal is only for me to know. Page
comes back with her own art piece: a hazelnut latte with a steamed milk rosetta
on top. I waft the boldly sweet, rich
and robust aroma of cinnamon roasted coffee beans as the dense smell creeps
into my nose. It’s a nice contrast seeing the light milk chocolate color
against the terra-cotta coffee mug. Bittersweet, warm and smooth, coffee
instantly relaxes my tight throat muscles yet provides the perkiness I need. Next
to this gem, she places a white ceramic plate holding the most delicate, flaky,
brown-golden bar of strawberry and cream cheese Danish lightly drizzled with
lemon infused white icing. I get out my phone and snap a pic for Instagram with
the hashtags #foodie, #pastrylove, and #nofilterneeded. The smile on my face
says it all, and Page assures me she will be back in a bit with the rest. My
headphones are on and I’m lost in genres of classical, metal, hip-hop,
indie-rock, electro-pop, and other music that is not so easy to categorize. I read, sketch, draw, color, and paint. I
mosey over to tinker on the piano keyboard under the gazebo in the corner of
the property.
Then, I hear distinct voices I could pick out of a crowd no
matter how busy the area. I hear high-pitched, babbling of a precious baby girl.
I hear a low tenor voice that is stretching itself to match the high pitched
tone of baby. Both voices are happy, caring, playful, and loving. She points at
the trees and excitingly says “Bir!” Her daddy agrees, “Yes, a bird is in the
tree!” She give a scrunchy face smile and giggles. My husband and young daughter wave from a
distance as they walk toward our table. As our bodies lock, I close my eyes and
inhale. It’s a family hug, so I catch both scents of Baby Magic lotion and
Irish Spring soap. I hold on to the warm embrace as long I can trying to brand
the endearing moment in my memory. I kiss a stubble cheek and a marshmallow
cheek while Page comes back with a high chair for baby. We unite at our table
talking about this and that, a little chit-chat while eating turkey and
crescent sandwiches with smoked gouda cheese, fruit pastries, and us adults drinking coffee until we get
the shakes. Moments and memories with my family is what I truly treasure. The grey clouds are still rolling above as a
warning that they could release a storm at any point in time. I’m not worried about the
rain to come, for I love the sound of a thunderstorm. I love how the rain
settles the dust and grows something new. I love life.
