Work in progress - Chapter 1

I thought of us today. Sitting on a dirty, overcrowded bus heading home. My eyes had maintained constant contact with the yellow sign that reads out when stops have been requested. Not that I cared when or where the bus stopped; the terminal was the final destination no matter the route taken. The stare was so I wouldn’t have the make eye contact with the other commuters; each with their own agenda, friends, wins, losses, things that couldn’t be guessed, or much less cared about.

The sign met my gaze, and returned as much concern to me, as I to it. If the sign could think, what would be on its mind? Do you think that it’d care to have someone’s unwavering glare fixated on it? Should it not, would it afford everyone the same acceptance as it did I? Was this it: unconditional love?

Never blinked, and soon, the words were bleeding into one another. That filthy yellow was seeping into the grey ceiling. The colours visiting one another reminded me of that summer we’d spent opiate in the countryside.

Your cousin’s farm had that knoll on the edge of his property. It rose up a few metres and looked over the field, rich in un-kept grass and dandelions. A gorgeous, green expanse that rolled on for what seemed forever. It lay several acres away from the nearest farm, highway, telephone poll, or electric hum.

This was the closest to untouched beauty you and I will ever find.

The hill was our discovery. One evening while taking a walk together, just the two of us, we stumbled across the elevation. The evening was chilly and unlit, and the task of trekking that far out on Gille’s property was one of merit. You were cold and wanted to turn back. I was adamant that we came back in the daylight; you were cranky and wanted to go back to the house. We stood there exchanging arguments, losing body heat as the moments passed, until you agreed to my condition, if only so we could return to the residence and grab a sweater to manage the cool summer eve.

Can’t say I’m certain when we did return. Don’t think it was the next day, but it was in all likelihood sometime that week. It was around noon-hour, and we’d just had tea and soup. We climbed to the top of that fantastic mound and secured ourselves a spot to observe.

Ensconced, four grams deep. My arm was stretched across your back, and my hand found rest on your shoulder, as we gazed into the sky. There was no words expressed between us; we’d become one with the world. Wind flowing through the nearby trees behind us sang gentle melodies. They were songs that told of nature’s clandestine knowledge. God’s breath rushed down through the meadow, causing the grass to sway, and as it moved it caught the light from the sun, and handed it like a torch, blade to blade until it vanished into the horizon. Earth’s heart beat for us, opened itself up and bared its fruit like we were the Originals.

Sitting in that canvas as it painted itself, we’d lost all track of the time. The sun had started to hide itself behind the clouds, crying tears of orange marvel into the blue pool of felicity, fusing the colours together. I remember that sunset on the hill, bathed in violet light that danced its patterns before us, for us. I never wanted it to end.

Those most likely to be interpreted as paramnesia are my favourite thoughts of you. That was our definitive episode in tainted innocence.

April, where are you now?