Friday, March 20, 2009

Free write

The drums are slow. The bass is slow. The guitar is... is striking. It sounds like a sun tan. Sounds like like long hair and golden colors from a sun 40 years younger than she is now. Stay with me. Stay with me baby, it cries, she cries. Are we young forever? Does the wind whip forever like it does today or the way it did yesterday and the day before? Why do we cut our hair? Why do we shape it, mold it? It hurts to get out of the chair. Her hips ache from years and years of movement, of work, of play. She remembers the way her hips would ache in the younger sun. On her way to class. He would bring her vegetables from his mother's garden so she could eat for the week. She laughed then, and she still laughs now, when she thinks of the time she switched sides on the bed. He didn't know, he was suprised and had to jump farther so he wouldn't land on top of her. He flew across that queen sized bed straight into the wall. He didn't feel it then. He feels the ache now, he has to roll off the couch and get up from the carpet.

The sun is set. They've spent hours alone, one upstairs and one downstairs. She didn't think how the music moved her then. She was busy at the time. Now, though, now it is a relic. It is a reminder. Are we young forever?

She creeps into bed, onto the sheets she thought were green, but in the light shine gold. She turns off the light and rolls to her side. He comes to bed a bit later, and finds her on her side. The positions haven't changed for 37 years. He aches, and he isn't suprised.

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