“…That firecracker of a child came to me in the time of red pistachio leaves. She loved reaching this part of the book…”
It were as though the seat was a'glow with the ghost of that all-knowing Woman who, once upon a cool September day, bought him this very suit in which he now shrank year after year. And a Golden Grin bubbled up to his time-tattoo'd face.
"The roiling currents wound about her amphibious feet like a gleeful symphony for a new Queen..."
"She sees him bow his smiling craggy face down so his lobe meets her lips. The way he does this- one would think he is smaller than her..."
"She can't see the pigeons anymore. But she hears them take to the sky in bursts. The sunlight breathes on her knitted skin. She can't see the tower anymore..."
"The eyes of the inquisitive children hit them all at once with a piercing collective ignorance that seemed to bring its own desolate breeze..."
"And as Fernando the Fearless pours over the passages of Coleridge with such reverence, he does not even notice his little lips moving..."
"The louder the rain came, the softer the message and yet it was all she could hear. And with thirsty ears she drank it's faint words..."
She caressed the steel and the tines, then the snowy porcalin which contained that bottomless dark roast. "What is around that edge of bricks?", She whispered to the morning gusts of wind.
"For a Widow-Turned-Bride quite often needs that last moment to say goodbye to her previous chapter and hello to the next one; yea, and to breathe..."
Nothing else had such a way of making the child lose herself... quite like a sunset.
"An interesting detail about her was that she had nine fingers and no college. Yea, but that didn't matter. In the name of that fluttering eye-lash of hers- it didn't matter."
