One Day

He drives 10 miles an hour down Galena Boulevard. Sunlight breaks against a canopy of trees, flashing against the hood like the nervous blinking of an omniscient god. They don't talk, and he plays Dylan loud enough to drown out the great silence. She looks out the window at houses she imagined they would own someday. He looks straight ahead now and then, glancing at the beautiful flower beds. He remembers the flower poem he wrote for her adorned with metaphors of unadulterated love, but that was so long ago.

She chews gum and occasionally pops it. There was a time when it was cute, but it became an irritant after a while, and now, it was just who she was. She pops it twice and smirks. I don't give a shit, he thinks.

It's just as well they don't converse. They're expert wordsmiths hammering out the deadliest wordponry in existence. Stiletto knives that pierce to the core of one's being, daggers that thrust into one's psyche, broadswords that hack a skull wide open. They parry and strike expertly into areas that bleed out nice and slow. He reaches over and raises the volume on the radio to drown out the impending cataclysm.

Then he recollects a night when the southern wind raided the peach orchard and covered the land with blossoms when the stars were angels peering through the night veil, jealous of man's imperfections and free will. He recalls the scent of peach, wet soil, and the salty sweetness of her mouth. He remembers her hair tangled in his fingers, the feel of her warm flesh, the magical words that enchanted their moment, and the moon that covered them with its' sovereign light. 

She gives him a quick glance, jams another stick of gum in her mouth, and rapidly fires, snap, pop, snap. She flicks the wrapper eases into the hot vinyl seat, and allows her thoughts to drift.

He remembers a day on a ridge, the green country unfolding, vanishing into the infinite blue. He recalls the cacophony of hawks, bluejays, robins, ravens, cardinals, cicadas, and crickets and how it mystically transformed into a symphony, a wonderous gift, an offer from some unknown region. Lost in the splendor, relieved of the emptiness that threatened to consume him, a pearl dropped from the heavens and landed in his palm. He was a blue-collar worker, an average Joe asking questions, looking for answers in a universe too big to comprehend, and he wondered why the blessing. He didn't deserve it, but he accepted it. He remembers.

He pulls to the curb and meanders over to a cluster of peach trees. A cardinal is singing, and as he searches the treetop, his gaze falls on the perfect fruit. It dangles at the tip of a limb that touches the clouds. The wind currents seem to lift him and set him on a branch, and he perches like the sparrows that often congregate in his skull and guide him in his dreams. As he plucks it, he tumbles. Awash with light, he's swept onto the lush green and softly comes to rest. He is grateful for everything, for the things in life that make no sense, for the things he'll never fully understand.  

He ambles across the lawn and, reaching the car, offers the peach. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, accepts it, and cradles it like it's the last fruit on earth. He remembers a day on a ridge and the green country unfolding, vanishing into the infinite blue. He remembers a gift.

The breeze tousles her hair and makes ringlets of her auburn locks, and he notices how vibrant the world is. He drives away in silence, the fragrance of sweet peach permeating his being, his thoughts streaming into space, his body buzzing. He remembers a day on a ridge. He remembers the precious fruit. He remembers the gift.