Snow in the White Mountains, New Hampshire, USA.
Let’s grow old together…
Here with a short story from the Canadian writer Val B Russel.
dock in front of her friend's beach house. She had always been bewitched by the rhythmic violence of the sea and after feeling electrified by the sound she ignored the warnings to keep off the beach. When she got outside the thunder clouds were rolling their brutal gray mass across the sky. Everything was vibrant and alive, tempting her to explore the dangerous beauty of the water. At first she was able to run away when the waves teased her legs with a heavy watery claw, but when she decided to make her way back to the house after one last dance with her salt water partner, she was slammed down onto the rocks. She struggled to get to her feet but
her ankle was twisted and clearly broken.
He'd seen her from the road, the menacing waves pulling her toward a salt water grave. If no one ran to grab her back she would be taken for sure. He yelled for his friends and pointed before taking off down the rocks, reaching her at the same moment a bolt of lightning struck the dock nearby. The rain felt pounded on them as he carried her up to the house. They were both shivering from the cold of the water and fear. Her ankle was indeed broken and although though he didn't even know her name he followed the ambulance to the hospital to make sure she was okay. When
they released her three hours later with a cast and some crutches he
treated her to coffee and they fell in love.
This Easter they didn't come alone, they brought along an unwelcome
companion who had entered their lives recently; the brain tumor that would kill him in a year. The doctors had said words like "inoperable" and "malignant," suggesting he should get his affairs in order and perhaps try some new experimental drugs that were showing promise. Instead, they had sold their house and bought an old bungalow not far from the spot where he
had saved her life thirty five years before. It was the same spot where he'd kissed her for the first time and also where he'd proposed. It would be the same spot where she would throw his ashes exactly one year later, unable to save him from the wave of cancer that would sweep him away to his own salt water grave.
I’m going to write a poem
about not being able to write a poem
that blank white accuser keeps staring at me
cold and harsh
mocking my lack of emotional interpretation
creative credentials being what they are
an intangible made real by a collection of words written by one
read by many
To be truthful, I’ve been dumped by the fickle muse
abandoned in mid sentence
during the dropping of a comma
just left there to my own devices
bereft of all clever designs
I am now resigned
to adjust to the empty space between my ears
a dirty smoke stack silence replacing intelligent thought
a jumble of idiot letters
with no meaning beyond the lack of meaning
and one eternal ————-> ?
Photo: White Mountains, New Hampshire