Sharing Stories

Written with the prompts: a lot to handle, a game you see, celebrate, break my heart, a simple thank you, head bowed in silence, a couple walking in the fog, happening again, always took the easy way out, tired of using words, pick one, I love doing it though, hooked on phonics, curiously familiar, boys on the boat, he hid the matches, a peaceful scene, imagine, tour alone, we were young

She was touring the north coast alone, delighting in the curiously familiar landscape, though she’d never been here before. It was a game, you see, celebrating her newly broken heart, because–why not? She was bored with always taking the easy way out, as if life was some kind of Hooked on Phonics lesson. No, this time she was done with words. This time she would communicate in flute notes, dance steps, wine and dessert pairings perhaps. It amused her to think so.

One morning she saw a teen couple ambling along the beach in the fog, a deceptively peaceful scene. It conjured a different time, a different relationship. They were very young. There were boys in a boat, and he was among them, a classmate of hers. She saw him hide a pack of matches in his breast pocket, and it worried her. She wanted to ask him, but his head was bowed in silence. She was surprised when she noticed the bristle of beard on his jaw and chin. She stepped back to see his shoulders were square, his features suddenly mature.

They were together for years after that, but this was the moment, the first kindling of attraction that she’d had—well, for anybody.

She took a breath, realizing it was happening again, this inadvertent descent into past decades. I love doing it though, she admitted to herself for the first time. Maybe that’s what this trip was about, admitting her obsessions, owning her ruminations, embracing the pain she couldn’t let go of. Was it really so much to handle?—no, she was okay. She could hold it. She could hate it and cherish it at the same time.

As she drove on that week, she often came to a fork in the road, a “pick one!” moment—and she’d been sticking to the coastal route as much as possible. But on the last day she realized she need a break so she headed into the forest. She imagined some woodland creature—an owl or coyote—guiding her. She rolled down the window and listened for bird chatter. “Share your stories!” she called out, and she was rewarded with the cry of a hawk. Beckoning his mate or boasting of a kill? Perhaps it was a simple thank you from him for her invitation to share, and she bowed her head humbly.

We share this energy. We share this memory. We share this moment.

Photo by Renaud Confavreux