. beached .

                                                                       

. beached .

It's been a trip; I'm tired and even with the winter season I'm sweated and thick headed. Twelve rides and I'd finally gotten close enough to walk the rest of the way. The invitation had arrived the day before.

"please come I'm lonely and cannot sleep

M"

Twelve rides with only one touch on my knee; a sort of record; nothing compared to that last long hitch from AZ to the City of Rain. That one I would never forget, never forget. 'Forget it girl it's ancient history now; back with Troy and …' I shake myself a little and shift my over stuffed bag from my right to my left shoulder. The hoodie is off and wrapped around me tied in a simple square across my belly. 'I come bearing gifts girl; you best be home.' The note had been on photographic paper, written on the back in blue narrow Sharpie scented calligraphy. The front side was a smiling M and I'd known that I'd make the hike. I looked around searching for the gate, the growth here was thinner, that Pac-wind pushing and shoving things around as ever. This part of the long narrow state with sixteen different climate zones is one of the nicest. Sun, stone shore beaches, white sand, tough but swimmable surf; I feel myself begin to lose the tension of the ride here. '… that fucker in that truck, he's lucky I don't carry the .40 when I hitch … ' I'd hit him with the stun knuckles as I jumped from the slowed cab and he'd drifted into the ditch pissing himself and shuddering. My thumb was out again before the F-350 had tucked its grill into the deep narrow bank of the ditch and a group of teenagers driving south on the 1 pulled over on their way to meet a pressure front pushing ocean waters hard toward the coast.

There's the address, the gate, and the small surround of growth. I push through the decorative iron and walk slowly down the stones to the front entrance. 'So pretty here, no wonder she loves it so much.' I walk up to the recessed entry doors and hit hard with my knuckles '… that's going to bruise girl …' I rarely ring bells or use the iron or brass knockers on doors; I'm always reluctant to announce myself and prefer to peer through windows and tap on glass lightly instead.  '… old habits girl, forget the breaking and entering shit …' I hear nothing from inside and eye the small button bell trigger on the left side frame. '… she's probably not alone here … that girl … fuggit just take a look around …' I back off the step rise to the heavy doors and wander to the right side peering into shaded windows and white curtains; along the right side there are some shrubs and then a bit of grass behind the place. On the patio I approach the set of glass doors … she looks up startled.

Her head is on my lap and I'm humming an old song to her, careful to keep my voice soft and my hands gentle circles on her forehead, her temples with soft swirls, her sinuses on each side of that nose that begs for a kiss. '… Trojan horse there girlie be careful with yourself …' She's asleep but I know how this goes, it's a shallow fragile thing sleep and she needs it. There are dark smudges and some swelling beneath her eyes. My mind shifts to food and cooking and I wonder whether she'll have interest or keep it down; I wonder if she'll spend time in the kitchen with me while I prepare something that will give her energy and peace and some calories on her now narrow frame. '… so thin, only a few weeks since that disaster in the city and so thin …' I consider her, I consider her body, her length, her color, her greeting; "Oh gawd you startled me … I didn't know you were coming! Why didn't you write? What are you thinking?" and then the approach and her around me pulling me tight into her strong thinness and warmth and then her holding me away "I'm glad you are here … I've missed you and …" She'd stopped speaking then, just looking hard in my eyes. I was lost, my battle over and hers still taking place. "M ya wrote, I heard, here for whatever you need or want." We'd sat beside the windows in the mid-afternoon warmth of light with our bare feet touching and she'd told me of her work, her pressures, her days and nights. I hadn't said much, this speaking thing, so much, so fast with some long pauses and then another detail added, then something seemingly random but seen by me for the link that it was, all so new for us. Most of our past had been me barfing up every thought that smashed my head and heart around. Then for a month we'd circled each other in the fog and cold and wet of the Bay; in silences that cut and hurt and then the g'byes without even an au revoir exchanged. Left behind had been the silence of the dust of burnt cities and captive hearts.  

My hands rest light and motionless on her upper chest; they rise a little, slowly, and then sink down again. The pretty throw is across her lower body and her breathing is shallow and regular. We lay together in this room on this edge of the continent; this edge that trembles and shifts where she and it are stressed and in constant pressure; together on a pillowed couch in the rays of the failing sun. '... couches and me ... a cycle of couches ... not a bad thing to have become ...' I feel an urge to laugh but cautiously manage a smile. On that younger pressured tectonic edge, upon cushions of comfort with her laid back against me I stare out the window at the blues and yellows of late afternoon and the wide rolling world that waits. My legs are along each side of her, beneath the throw with her sweet warm body. Her golden hair is scattered across my right thigh and white hip, and her face is turned sideways to the left, heavy between the pair of them. The protection I offer is a small thing, as I am; it is a nice presence to her, a firm spring in a weary world. Late winter in the south of this long narrow over populated yet strangely empty state. '… that fucker I should have taken some time and really shocked the shit out of him …'

© Amanda 2013 2.13.2013
Image: "Golden Sunlight" by



       

for Megan Sophie ... i write ... that is what I am ...