Clash Reunion

Memories, they can't be boughten.
They can't be won at carnivals for free.
Well it took me years to get those souvenirs,
And i don't know how they slipped away from me.
~~John Prine

Sunday morning John Prine was singing in the next room when I caught sight of my shadow as she danced a little jig, sang along with the music while I cracked eggs on a cast iron griddle. I almost bumped into her when she twirled past me in the kitchen, the creases in her smile lines like tiny bird tracks on a morning beach. I saw her again later in the day as she tip-toed barefoot across stepping stones, holding her skirt, laughing at the water skimmers skiing across the surface of the pond we dug in the back yard. Just before bed I glimpsed her between sleepy breaths as my eyes fell upon a photograph of her lost in a sensual kiss, swirling in limerance. She disappeared with the lamplight, left me counting the turns of fan blades as they quietly passed over the woman who used to sing and dance and laugh and love like they were all stolen.

Has it ever happened to you? Have you ever reached for a fragmented memory of joy, only to have it fade before you can trace the outline of a captured smile? It's not a sudden thing, this losing oneself layer by layer until all that's left are ragged footprints. It happens gradually, like the slow recession of water at low tide, until you've forgotten the lush lapping at your ankles and the gulls calling over your head. You walk on, your pockets heavy with pinkswirl shells, toward an island that doesn't recognize the shape of your bones or know the fullness of your cupped hands.

Then one day you pull a jacket from behind the door and as you're moving through the paces of a lackluster afternoon your hand rests on something familiar, a crusted curl of beauty carved by the past. You hold the shell in your hand, finger each fine feature of its delicate history, spit-shine it to embellish the iridescence of perfected imperfection. Closing your eyes, you hear the squeak of your feet against wet sand, feel the rhythm of unseen waves against your chest, taste the pungent exhale of your own salty breath. The ocean rises to lick your knees, hug your waist, touch your shoulders until she finally washes over you, reuniting your soul with her lost body, becoming the water itself.

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Comments

[Fran aka Redondowriter]

So very, very beautiful and poignant. And, of course, we all feel that way sometimes. This is a beautiful photo of you, too, El, having seen you nude when we all went hot tubbing years ago up in SLO.

Congratulations on being in the magazine about your blog, although CJ crashed tonight and though I thought it was Redbook, I'm not sure. I hope you post this here so all your fans can read about your mention. I really like Ronni Bennett's site about aging, As Time Goes By, and she just got a mention on elder bloggers in the AARP Magazine.

Are you going to Blogher? Tell us more about it.

[ellie]

Thanks, Fran. The blurb was in MORE Magazine and the link was on Redbook's iVillage site.

I'm not going to BlogHer, but I am hopefully meeting a couple faves after the gig.

[malcolm]

As Sam Stone sang his familiar lament I happened apon a picture, recently taken of a familiar stranger almost within reach I near spoke but hesitated just long enough to let the moment pass. If and when I pass that way again I'll speak out and only fear the day I don't resemble.
Malcolm

[Victoria]

Ellie - How poignant. Really nice writing; I loved it. Reading it made me quiet. (And that's hard to do.) - V

[ellie]

Malcom--Sam Stone has been playing in my head all week. Haunting song that is relevent today.

Victoria--Quiet is also a challenge for me. Perhaps that's how she and I first separated, so lost was I in my own noise-making.

Thanks for stopping by...