dontravis.com
blog post #386
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| Courtesy of churbie.com |
Nostalgia
time again. See if my flash fiction piece below conjures up any memories. Let me know
how you like it.
*****
IF ONLY….
I stood at the window looking
down on the city park. From my perch three stories above, the place reminded me
of a massive playhouse. An expanse of grass—newly mown judging from alternating
patterns of light and dark green—made up the carpet with gravel walks that resembled
worn places in the pile. Bushes ranging from Gainesboro gray to plum purple provided
walls, while tall, leafy trees made an inconsistent roof of sorts.
The ceaseless movement of people
intrigued me. Nursemaids pushed strollers holding their charges. Mothers and
daughters sat on blankets while fathers and sons tossed Frisbees or balls.
Maids and maidens sat on iron benches knitting, reading, or talking. The gleeful
shrieks of children on swings and slides and seesaws faintly penetrated the
glass pane. One man in a red and white shirt and a straw bowler walked around
hawking identically red and white striped cartons of popcorn. Puffy clouds
provided cooling shade before moving on to spill sunshine again. I imagined I
could smell the arresting aromas of yellow and red flowers lining the walks. In
the distance, a family of ducks paddled across a small pond.
But it was a couple cavorting
in a secluded nook provided by a thick burning bush hedge who commanded my
attention. An unusual duo given the setting. Two young men—one with dark hair,
the other with honey locks—looked on the verge of bursting into their twenties,
at least as viewed through the telescope I customarily used to examine the night
sky. Handsome and laughing. Pedigreed colts at play. Tickling one another and
mock wrestling. Pausing occasionally to glance into one another’s eyes. A
furtive hand moved here and there, setting off gales of giggling.
Resting from horseplay, they
sprawled side by side on their backs, one’s hand resting casually on the
other’s chest. That did not last long. Nervous energy brought them to their
feet to strip polo shirts from their torsos and cast them aside. Facing one
another, crouched in opposition, Brunet used what looked to be a college class
book as a football. Naked muscles bunched as he charged forward. Honey Locks
intercepted him. It was, of course, merely an excuse to grapple, to feel, to
experience. They ended up in a tumble, one atop the other. Both boys froze, and
I sensed the moment had arrived.
The fairer youth lowered his
head, and their lips met. Through my telescope, I clearly saw fright or fear or
indecision on the other boy’s features before he relaxed and accepted his
companion’s intimacy. They parted, and Brunet shook his head. Honey Locks spoke
urgently. I couldn’t read his lips, but there was no mistaking his message. He was
proposing, his friend was hesitating.
As I watched, the dark-haired
boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded. An understanding had been reached. They
rose, shrugged into their shirts, and collected their books. In the protection
of the hedge, they walked hand in hand across the grass. As they emerged from
their private glen, they moved apart to observe the conventions of society. In
the grip of a ten-year-old memory, I watched them all the way out of the park.
For a brief instant, that
recollection from my own teen years almost seemed real. I was creekside with
Johnny again. The skinny-dipping was over, and we lay on the sandy shore,
allowing the sun to dry our adolescent flesh. He initiated horseplay, and I
reacted like the boys in the park, participating, enjoying it, experiencing a
deep thrill that I didn’t understand. And then he kissed me and took me in
hand.
Panicked, I pushed him away.
Shook my head. He said nothing, merely looked hurt and dressed in silence.
Something was lost that day. Something precious.
“Charles, are you ready?”
I turned to greet my wife
dressed to the nines for our business reception that afternoon. I smiled, but
I’m certain it didn’t reach my eyes. That only happened when eight-year-old Carolyn
bounced into the room, dolled up in her mother’s mascara and blush.
“Look, daddy. I’m like mother.
Am I pretty?”
Sweeping her up in my arms, I
experienced the familiar tug between what was and what might have been. Love
versus regret. Trade offs ruled our very lives.
“Pretty as a picture, honey.”
I glanced at nature’s
playhouse outside the window and couldn’t resist a thought.
If only….
*****
I don’t know about you,
but I have a few “if only” moments in my life, one particularly powerful that I
don’t understand to this day. All I know is that I wish I had reacted
differently. Would it have cemented a relationship or destroyed one? I’ll never
know.
Let me know about some
of your “if onlys....”
Until next week.
The following are buy
links for the recently released The Voxlightner Scandal.
Barnes
& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-voxlightner-scandal-don-travis/1132632844?ean=9781640809260
Now
my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on
writing. You have something to say, so say it!
My
personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting
remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE
THAT ONE.)
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
Buy
links to Abaddon’s Locusts:
See
you next week.
Don
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