It might have appeared haunted, if you didn’t know, draped in ivy and crouching in the overgrowth. Wild boughs of the live oak twisted and stretched, concealing the corner from sight. Along the side porch rose an untamed camellia, obscuring what little view might have remained.
The windows were always dark; the siding splintered and in need of paint; the chimneys haphazard with age. A peacock, cloaked in climbing vine, emerged along the stair railing, carved by some hand turned lifeless long ago. Floorboards rippled, rising and falling with the salt and humidity in the air — keys of a tuneless piano that had struck a chord and fallen silent in their moment.
I crouched beneath the cornice, a caryatid out of time and place.
I used to climb out onto the roof. Above it all, I crouched beneath the cornice, a caryatid out of time and place. Cape Fear glistened — even at night — just visible over the rhythmic ebb and flow of the breezes that tousled branching live oak limbs.
I waited.
Makeshift posies of wildflowers and garden flowers snatched from window boxes in the night appeared each morning — you did not. Sometimes silently slid onto the bottom stair; often tucked behind cracked chinoiserie; occasionally strewn boldly along the idle threshold —I breathed them in.
Intertwined into wistful bunches, they whispered that you’d been… and that you’d never stay. Cadences of thought passed between us, flourishing and fading in turn.
Once in hand, I’d rush inside with them, screen door snapping. Up the stairs, into the weather-worn library scented by must and leather, I went. Harmonies lingered above the piano at the window. I barely regarded them; they’d become an entity their own— silent canaries beating their wings within a gilded cage. But in moments, their breathless musings rushed through my veins again, pooling into color that formed against the raw flesh of page at my fingertips.
A single camellia, bleeding crimson along pale purple edges, caught my eye. A flick of my brush, and she appeared within the folds of sketchbook.
I thumb the years by, recalling that we’re tethered to the stories we must tell, you and I.
Time sifts ash away as I look down over years and in and out of Memory. I select a single volume from the stacks. One I know well. Worn with touch, it falls open across my lap and I leaf through, seeking that single moment.
I know her petals have closed; her color drained. Now but a husk of prior vitality — I thumb the years by, recalling that we’re tethered to the stories we must tell, you and I.
She blooms.
There, where I left her. So long ago realized in alizarin and viridian — streaked with moments of dioxazine. One page facing the many:
but you know who you are — to me.
Thank you so much for taking the time to join me on my flights of fancy!
Unfortunately, due to the many adventures of Everett Brooks (see
for background), I’ve been unable to write much of late.If you’re so inclined, tips are gladly received: