Saturday, August 29, 2015

Guitar with No Strings




There’s a towel on my dripping wet hair as I stand out on the cabin deck and stare at the lake, the sun is going down and my brain starts remembering everything that happened today. I hesitate for a moment there are things that have happened in the past that I don’t let run freely in my mind and I hope that they will leave me alone on such a complete day.
On the lake shore he sits, the fire he has been working on for the last 15 minutes has grown in a nice dome shape for us to roast veggie dogs and vegan marshmallows on.  He brought his own hot dogs but he said all marshmallows are vegan so he knows mine would taste good.
The dream I had last night when I was alone came back to me. One older, and a virgin, said that she wouldn’t have sex with just anyone because she wasn’t willing to be abused, love hurts she said she understands that, but doesn’t want to get abused, the other one as if to prove her point correct said she had a free sex life and sometimes there were things that hurt more than love should have that sometimes it was messed up and violent.
I tried to understand which was right and which was wrong and realized I had to stop somewhere in the middle open and free yet cautious. So when he came down the beach, sandals and socks a guitar and said he too was here alone bordering between boredom and being overwhelmed with things to do. He had to keep moving he said the view from the rented cottage was great but he had to keep moving keep thinking.
He didn’t want to find me.
But I told him I sing a bit and that I tried to make a fire on this august night but the only thing crackling were the crickets.
I joined him again down by the lake and he began to play Bell Bottom Blues I’ve listen to the album 24 nights millions of times and knew enough to sing a long and hummed the phrases I didn’t know. Then he let me pick a song I knew I picked Leavin’ on a Jet Plane we sang for a while and he headed back to his cabin and I to mine.  I walked by the next morning, to the location of his cabin, down a trail I’d never been, I followed his sandal in the mud.

There was nothing there but an old barn and in guitar with no strings.


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