I am smiling, glad for the sunshine, sitting back in the old wooden rocking chair, low and comfortable, cradle of peace. The faint creaking as I rock to and fro is a music to memory. I watch the light dance in the thin line of smoke leaping in curls from the cigarette in the verdant brass ashtray, at once hypnotized by the rolling colors.
First a flaming flaxen gold, as the clouds veil the sun’s glowing globe, now beginning to brighten, the air waxes a shimmering, silvery blue. There are bursts of saturating pearl… radiant calcimine flashes that bathe the smallish room in briliiant reflections of the painted and polished steel surf pounding up and down the avenue outside my apartment. The midday traffic sweeps past the window in waves. The murmuring rumor grows, sonorous, to a vibrating resonant rush and raucous clamour, then ebbs to a hushed rumble.
The chair creaks quietly. I close my eyes as the symphony swells…
Now I am crouched, knees drawn under my chin for stability, on the tepid, varnished mahogany transom. All hues of blue, variegated turquois, rich azure, vivid sapphire, and subtle aquamarine, stretch gleaming, seeming endless, around the small wooden boat, as it rises and falls, bobbing tranquily, pressing through the light swells. A soft breeze carries the gurgling growl of the idling engine and the legato lapping of the water and wake into the warm summer afternoon. My two brothers, tanned and tow-headed, sit on the cream colored vinyl engine cover munching peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, sipping ice cold Sprites. Grins turn to giggles when our dog, Max, a gay-spirited springer spaniel, all floppy ears, snuffling muzzle, and sable on snow fur, looks as if he is trying to talk as he gobbles a corner of peanut butter coated bread I tossed to him. My mother and father, relaxing in the front seat, look back at us, Rayban be-spectacled, and smile. Smells of salt spray, sun block, and wet dog. The indigo Igloo cooler brimming with the day’s diving booty… bugs to be broiled and basted in garlic butter.
I am lying in an old cherry bed, wrapped in drowsiness. The pale pink glow of a cold December dawn peaks through the diaphanous cotton curtain and dances on the white marble window sill. My mom’s slender silhouette graces the threshold of the bedroom door. “Merry Christmas,” her voice rings, clear and cheery, widening my eyes. We three ebullient boys bound, wild eyed, down the short hall, exploding into the Santa stuffed living room. Our noses hail us with mini-donuts, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Hot chocolate! The round belly of a bountiful birthday breakfast. A warm hug from mom and I’ve forgotten my cold feet on the kitchen’s tile floor. A soft kiss from mom on my forehead and I’m bouncing off to drown with my brothers in a crazy confetti of many colored gift wrap, garland, and tinsel. My parents sit on the tan futon, strong coffee and comfort. Max sits on their feet, thoughtfully crunching a Christmas cookie, wagging in peace and contentment. My arm sinks deep into my stocking.
In the fresh gloaming outside the Jai Alai Fronton, an eager excitement fills my chest. The atmosphere pulses, flushed with exhilaration and hopefulness, enthusiastic in the promise of the future. Black and red robes rustling in a buoyant bustle of the Class of Eighty-eight graduation congradulations. I am standing with my mom, dad, brothers, and grandparents. An embossed black leather diploma wallet is clutched in my hands. The gold Omega chronograph, a strange new weight on my wrist, ticks away the happy minutes. Grandma says, “cheese, ” I catch a glimpse of my mom, her face shines, she smiles with pride, knowing the difficulties I faced to find this. I smile, knowing mom’s gentle, firm guidance and manifest hope, sharing in her faith, brought me this moment. Grandpa snaps the photo.
The traffic noise fades as the car pulls off the right shoulder of the busy street, with a gentle jolt, onto the soft shell-spotted sand trail, and parks. The surf a slow, pounding pendulum in the distance. A short walk deep into the palms, scrub pines, and mangroves. I’m standing, slouched, in a quiet picnic spot on the banks of the north side of Sebastian Inlet with my grandparents and one of my brothers. We exchange wan stares. There are few words. The taciturn tears flow out with the swift, purling tide and my youngest brother’s ashes. My mom and dad wade slowly ashore, weeping, reluctant to leave their child behind, in the Atlantic Ocean. My mother holds me and my brother’s hands in her own. Dad stands with us, close. Silent and still, beside the roiling water, we welcome my brother’s young soul into our yearning hearts, for safe keeping. Cicada, invisible in the shadows under the lush brush and palmettos, chirp a requiem. The wind whispers, “Why?” Gulls cry, gliding high in the onshore salty mist.
I am sitting on a cool concrete bench. I cannot feel the mixing console under my fingers, it is an extension of me, only. Enrapt in the emotion evoked by this vision, I am lost in the moment. Little l.e.d.s blinking, in sync with the sound of my mother’s sweet, ardent voice declaring devotion. She stands straight by her new husband’s side, her luminous eyes smile in hallowed happiness, hand in hand, in the fragrant shade amidst the roots of the tall oaks… broad furrowed boles, rich earthen browns, living pillars of a large arboreal hall, holding a high roof of restless green and lemon gold leaves glittering in the bright clear noon-light overhead. Love affirmed, new friendships struck, and family re-kindled, it is a mirthful marriage feast. Droning of airplanes… “Anyone for a ride?” Mouth-watering barbeque and an afternoon bathed in relaxation. The music and resplendent laughter of a generous day course through me. God’s children play.
My eyes are open now. Focused. The daydreams end. All the stresses and struggle of the day washed away, my spirit clean, serene, through just a few of the numberless memories that often return to my mind, never lost, regardless of time. Tomorrow, as on all days, around late afternoon, I will sink into that old rocking chair, a timber time machine gifted to me by my mother, I’ll stretch out my weary legs and sagging soul, and I will remember.
- xipetotec
