This is an excerpt from the second chapter of Bleakpoint, “Day 167”. Through the window, I saw a youthful, baby blue dress resting on the shoulders of my Bailey as she walked in her black slippers through the grass and weeds to a ring of flowers with white petals and yellow eyes. Her legs were fittingly white with her favorite dressy leggings and her lips moved with lyrics. She sang to herself in the same way that she breathed, so very often. She adored all sorts of music; her dreams filled with orchestras, symphonies, musicals, and operas, I somehow knew. And when she sang in this way, her sweet voice reaching the tip-top highest notes so gracefully, the blades of grass and branches of trees flowed and swayed along with her melody. I watched as creation dipped so boldly, left and right, reaching so highly toward the clouds and it being so clear to me that she sang of he who created it all. A breeze rolled under the notes of Bailey’s song of such divinity, in an obeying undertone. As far as my thoughts and opinions are concerned, the breeze had no effect on this world around Rachel, except to lift the ends of her hairs to wave along with her harmony. It set the optimum, merciful summer temperatures, but it was the notes Bailey sang that made the world so lovely and the weather so clear and calm. The wind is pure force, but this song… Her song, is what guided its direction, intention and ferocity; so commanding, yet so sweet. Her pitch was like the red-lettering in a Bible, though it was the voice of a goddess instead of a god in this instance, with which every soul was captured—entranced by. A midsummer day’s dream: feeling a bit of the breeze through the window, dipping down to my ankles and twirling up the round scale of my body, landing inside my ears gracefully, like loose pillow-feathers. It wrapped around me like a fairy tale whirlwind, carrying the notes of Bailey’s song. It nudged the lacey ends of my day dress and sent slight goose bumps up my thighs. The breeze reached out with its soft fingertips and shut my eye lids and rustled my bangs in a silly, playful adoration and tease. This moment opened up the picture book that was my childhood, and dropped me onto the open green, sun-kissed spaces where I spent my mornings and afternoons as a girl. Flowers would fall from blooming vines and blooming fruit trees to softly nestle themselves between my strands of hair. I wore a white, flowing sun dress my mama had sewn me, though my feet were bare. My feet were, and are, free spirits naturally, since the ground has always been so kind to me. Everywhere I went the grass and soil was soft with support, the trees shading my paths and destinations. Trees the size of our lighthouse; though a tree with a trunk made of brick, and branches of far-reaching light.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Jun 2013 20:37:34 +0000