Monday 24 December 2012

Monday Fables #13: Summer Wind

How ridiculously appropriate for Christmas Eve: Summer. It is Christmas Eve and I hope those who celebrate are spending the day wisely. I, myself are posting this and then heading out to volunteer as an elf at a local hospital before heading home for some last minute wrapping and family time. And even if you don't celebrate the holiday, it's a monday and the world is sort of taking a breather so enjoy the moment.

Summer Wind – Michael Buble

The summer wind, came blowin' in - from across the sea
It lingered there, touch your hair and walk with me
All summer long, we sang a song - then we strolled that golden sand
Two sweethearts, and the summer wind

Like painted kites, those days and nights - went flyin' by
The world was new, beneath a blue - umbrella sky
Then softer than, a piper man - one day it called to you
I lost you to the summer wind

The autumn wind, and the winter wind - have come and gone
And still the days, those lonely days - go on and on
And guess who sighs his lullabies - through nights that never end
My fickle friend, the summer wind
He saw her across the field, her chestnut curls falling over her shoulder as she stared out across the lake. The wind picked up the ends of her white dress and placed them across her knees. She smiled, as if caught in a memory before she returned to the book in her palms. He watched her a moment longer before he gathered the courage to approach her. “Excuse me,” she looked up and he was momentarily stunned by the intensity of her green eyes, looking at him with no expectancy; just waiting patiently “I-I-I…uh…” he took a gulp of air, catching a whiff of strawberries distinctly coming from her direction “hi.”
“Hi.” She smiled and he nearly melted.
“I’m sorry, I was coming over here to tell you that I saw you standing there and you looked so beautiful reading” he quickly glanced down at her book “Dostoyevsky – impressive – and I just had to come over here and meet you because you seem like a person I would want to get to know. I mean you’re beautiful and obviously intelligent and when you looked at me I think I just melted which I have never done in my life and” he stopped when she placed a gentle hand over his mouth. God her skin was so soft.
“Hi,” she laughed the sweetest ringing of a bell “I’m Moira.”
“Uim.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, even as she removed her hand “I’m John.”
She blushed – could she get more perfect? – and nodded “it’s very nice to meet you John; would you like to join me?” He stared at her for a moment before shaking his head and offered her a weak smile before sitting down beside her on the grass. “So John, do you like Dostoyevsky?”
Three months later he was gone, lost in a flurry of tears as she met him in the same park where they’d met. He promised to write to her as often as possible but there was a gut feeling in her soul that told her that he wouldn’t be writing for a very long time.
She was wrong but the letters were brief and staggered, simply expressing his emotion for her where he was on the planet, always telling her not to worry about him but every night after work she would sit by the radio, waiting for news of the boys in Europe. As the months wore on the letters became more and more infrequent until it was summer again. She hadn’t gone outside in nearly a week, worried out of her mind for him. She hadn’t received a letter from him in a month and she hadn’t been able to concentrate. There had been news last night of a dozen deaths in the town she knew he was but she had to get out of the house. It was just so cramped and stale sitting there alone and the outside world was so blue and so calm. Perhaps, she hoped, the summer wind would remind her of old times that were happier.
She found herself back at the park, a book in her hand and her curls draped over her shoulder. She sat at the top of the hill, staring out over the clear blue lake, lost in thought. For a moment his voice filled her head and she shook with the memory. Her fingers dug into the pages of the book until she flung it through the grass, sinking between the blades as she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
“Dostoyevsky, impressive.” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories to dispel. “I’m sorry, I came over here to meet you because you look so beautiful standing there.” She looked up just as a breeze began to pick up, gathering the ends of her skirt around her knees. He was standing there, heart in his throat, his uniform still hanging on his shoulders “And I just wanted to tell you that…I love you.”
Her response was to jump into his arms, her book flying back into the grass, completely forgotten as he collapsed into the hill, holding on to her for dear life.
She released a laugh so sweet he wiped away a tear from her eye with his thumb. Grabbing the sides of his face, she pulled him in for a gentle kiss, long and unmoving; a moment in time lost to everyone but those in love. She pulled back with matching joy in her eyes; her voice was soft and broken.
He laughed with her. “Hi, I’m John.”
“Moira” she sniffled “you’re back.”
“I am.”
Her breathing was deep and he felt her heart beat against his chest, keeping the smile plastered on his face.
“Hi.” She couldn’t find words beyond it.
He brought his thumb to wipe her tears away “why are you crying, Princess?”
She gulped in the summer air a few times before she could find the words “you threw my book away.”
He laughed with her.

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