Time Warp Image

Money by Kathy T. Camp

I'm sitting at my dining room table, well, I'm actually at my computer now, but I have been at my table. And I'm looking at medical bills, adding them all up. This is something I really hate to do. I don't know why I hate it so much. In the end, this will be a good thing. I do believe that. 


The problem is, I just can't seem to find the right background music to go with this activity. I started with the Beetles, but that made me think of 1969 and walking to school wearing bell-bottom jeans. 


So, I put on some nice piano solo music. Well, I felt like I was in a  lovely coffee shop. So, I had to make a cup of coffee. Luckily, I found some toffee crumbs, intended to put on icecream as a garnishment. Well, I put them in the bottom of my coffee cup and poured in the fresh coffee. Then, a crises hit. I AM OUT OF MILK! 


How can a coffee shop run out of milk? I scanned my fridge for an alternative. I did find some vanilla yogurt and frankly, I was about to try it when I spotted whipped cream. YES! That is definately coffee shop-esque. When I lifted the lid though, my body almost convulsed in horror, teenie-tiny black dots, maybe 5 or 6, were on the surface of the white fluff that HAD to go in my coffee. 


This container of whipped cream is not the average size. Let me tell you that I had plans to make a 'millionarie pie' a couple of weeks ago. It called for Large quantities of whipped cream, so I got the BIGGIE size. Obviously, I didn't make the pie because the container is still in my fridge--sadly--beginning to grow black dots. Well, I decided that 5 or 6 black spots were not going to kill my coffee-shop experience. Large spoon to the rescue! I scooped out the entire top layer of that whipped cream. Into the trash it went. 


I'm proud to say that my coffee looks fabulous now. The bills, well, um, I'm trying a different type of theme music now. Josh Groban. It worked for about 10 minutes. But then, some really melodic song came on that compelled me to write this little story here. So, obviously, this is not the right music for organizing bills, but it is motivating me to write. If you have any suggestions, please post them. I'd love your input. Basically, when it comes to numbers, I run away...to my coffee...and Josh Groban's sweet voice.

Time Warp

He pops in 

from time to time.

And when he's gone,

It's like he almost was never here.

The ghost of him lingers,

And it seems impossible

that he exists in my life today.

The reality that is handed to me, one contrary to the facts, is this:

He was a lifetime ago.

How can someone in the present

Leave their memory in the distant past?

It is happening to me

Every single time I see him.


He was a lifetime ago.

I have those long-ago memories of innocence and beauty

and music
and soft kisses.

Forever 
wrapped around me forming a cocoon
of who I am.

Helping me to hope

that my future will be 

as sweet as the past.

Then a crack forms,

and a blast of light enters.

We share a cup of coffee

and wildflowers

and hold pinkies

while the june-bugs sing.

Or we throw a blanket

on a hill

in the freezing cold

to watch the stars twinkle 

and light our way.

When the truck lights fade,

the memory of yesterday

becomes something

so far away

that it is almost
as if
we created a breach
in space and time. 

Last night, as I looked at the candle wax

on my dresser 

I felt this paradox of time.

Then, I had a thought:

What if, instead of putting memories in the past

we are touching a future?

And since the future cannot exist in our minds yet,

The only place for the memory to reside

Is the place where it began.

The Soft Ones

      Although the sun had set several hours earlier, it was still close to 80 degrees. We sat on a bench beneath carefully pruned towering oaks. Their branches were so long, you couldn’t tell where one tree ended and another began. Like a crowd of people reaching out their arms, letting fingertips touch, the trees seemed to invite us to join their circle. Just to our left, stood the simple, unadorned law library. Nearly in front, almost facing us, was one of those statuesque Southern Style structures with Corinthian columns and three balconies. Ten minutes earlier we stood on the second level balcony.  I turned away from the railing after only a few seconds of standing close to it, embarrassed that I’d gotten a little light-headed. But, he walked towards the staircase at the same time, bent over, reached towards his shins and explained, “I’m feeling tingling sensations here,” as he waved his hands up and down his legs, ending with his fingers pointing towards his toes.

      “I call it ‘toe-curling.’ I’m having the same issue. I don’t really want to go any higher.” I freely explained. We made our way down the winding staircase, me no longer ashamed of my fear of heights. One particular bench whispered our names, and we heard it. As I studied the architectural details on this amazing building, using the pale light cast by the antique lamposts, I felt a light touch on my elbow.

      “Listen to them!” In an excited whisper.

In the distance I could hear muffled voices and tires on pavement. “The students are out in force. I bet it's mostly freshmen- their the first weekend of college. Imagine their excitement.”

      “I’m talking about the insects. Do you hear them?” he redirected my focus.

      “Yea. Those are june-bugs, right?” They hummed off and on.  I’d heard them my whole life and knew he had too, so I wondered why he  pointed out the obvious.

      He put his hand on my arm, “Yes, they are the loud ones. But listen closely, there are 3 layers of sound.”

      I closed my eyes, uncrossed my legs and leaned my head back. It was as if someone turned up the volume. It sounded like a million june-bugs had descended upon us. My ears seemed to open up. 

      As if he knew I was only focused on the center-stage , he added. “I know you can hear the june-bugs, but just keep listening for the softer ones.” 
A high pitched whistle sounded from my left. Then above me, there was an echo of that same pitch. "It's a cricket, right?"
"Yes. Keep listening. You'll hear the real soft ones."
A moment later he reached over and touched my ear, “Did you hear that?”

      I opened my eyes. I wasn’t sure I’d heard it. “Would you raise your finger when you hear it again?” I waited for his sign.  I heard a soft twitter followed by an uneven chirp. He lifted his index finger and his eyes got bigger.
“Did it sound like this?”  I tried my best to repeat the rhythm. “Yes!” He said, with an enthusiastic gesture of his head, tilting it forward, confirming my new fine-tuned listening. “That’s it! Keep listening.”

      Suddenly, I heard the entire night orchestra. Violins, violas, cellos.

      “Why do they sing like this? Are the males singing, hoping to find a mate?” My question sounded so terribly naïve that I was immediately ashamed that I’d even asked it.

      “Uh-huh. That’s right.” He gave a reply that I imagined was the exact tone he'd used to answer his sons' questions.

      “That’s really amazing. So, the ladies are listening intently for a certain song, a voice that they cannot resist? And they move closer to that music?”

      I smiled in the darkness, feeling like the insects were showing me a path to follow.

      We continued sitting, his elbow propped on the back of the bench. I propped mine too, tilted my head back again, and closed me eyes. A light touch surprised my little finger, and I jumped a little. But, I kept my eyes closed. His pinkie traced my finger so softly, it reminded me of the way I lightly kiss my own children on the forehead, or cheek, while they are sleeping.
After he caressed my little finger he wrapped his around mine. I felt like he'd linked a kite string to a steady rock on the ground. I was free to float, but felt a sense of connectedness that I hadn't felt in over twenty years. 
We sat and listened, linked together, to the orchestra, and it was as if all of creation was handed to us. I felt such a sense of awe with the whole night that I wasn't sure if I could ever describe it.


After what seemed like an hour, I looked at him and saw a soft smile, the kind that happens when you are truly comfortable and safe. The lamp lights behind him cast a white glow around his silhouette.

      I realized that this moment itself had many layers. The reality was almost too much.

      The soft voices in my life, the ones barely audible, well, I had missed them for so many years.  Could it be that he was telling me something about himself, something that I needed to hear, but I was so busy listening to the foreground, that I was missing it? I wanted to start the night over, really, wanted to start my life over, and listen to his soft voice the first time he spoke, nearly 30 years ago.


While that was one aspect of my realization, another one crept into view. Our little fingers intertwined. Such a delicate way to connect.
Were our linked pinkies all that we needed when I'd always thought that I needed an entire hand? He saw a strength in me, with his actions, that I needed to see in myself. 


      We sat on the bench for what seemed like an hour. I felt my body relax and my breathing slow down. I was acutely aware of our pinkies, which stayed linked, as we enjoyed the night orchestra.

      “I’m kinda hungry.” I said, as I felt my stomach begin to knock up against itself.

      “Me, too.”

      “I want some breakfast. We could go to The Grill. It’s just across the street.”

      “That sounds good to me.”

      His voice, his soft southern speech, melted my heart. We stood up together, pinkies still hooked and walked under the big oaks, serenaded by the love-makers' orchestra. Simple music.

Perfect music. 


I finally heard the soft ones, and now, it seems, I listen for them whenever I get a chance. I'm hoping that one day I’ll hear the soft voice that I can’t resist. Then again, maybe I’ve already heard it.

     

                  

If I Knew

If I knew

If I knew it was going to be good-bye,

I would have strummed a little longer

So I could hear the beating of your drum

behind me, creating a solid sound of strength.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye

I would have squeezed your hand a little tighter

As we sat on the bench, listening to the night

Music.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye

I would have looked into your eyes a little longer

And kissed your eyelids while you slept.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye,

I would have rested my foot on top of yours

As we ate our bacon biscuits at The Grill.

And I would have leaned over the large booth twice,

Instead of once, to steal a kiss.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye

I would have rested my head on your chest

And listened more intently, to the beating of your heart,

To soothe the strain of my sorrow.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye,

I would have asked you to play another song

On my scalp with your finger tips

Enjoying your thumb tap the rhythm of the bass.

If I knew it was going to be good-bye

I would not have let you walk away

Without looking in your eyes and telling you

How I feel, while touching your cheeks.

I would have told you that you have had my heart for

Nearly 30 years, and that 
no time, 
nor space, 
nor miracle, 
nor tragedy

Would change that.

And I would have told you that hanging on to you

At this point, seems like it is eating away at our hearts.

Wanting something so bad, that I feel at times,

Like I need to walk across a frozen sea to show you

How much I love you.

But knowing, also, that you are still stuck some place

That is too far away from me.

Your heart is still locked away from me

And that no matter what I say, or do,

That in the end, it is simply up to you.


If I knew it was going to be good-bye

I think I might have pounded your chest

And cried like I am crying right now.

So that you would know

That I feel like I will never find

Another person

On this planet

That feels like

He is already

A part of

Me.

Now I know that it was good-bye

And I am trying not to regret the things

We said, but more so, I’m trying not to

Regret what I didn’t say.

But it is hard.

I know that if I want something

Inordinately, it is a sign that

There is something within me

that is discontent.

And I accept that.

Because it is true.

I am discontent being disconnected

From the love of my life.

I am lonely without you.

I ache without you.

Because I know that

The music is more melodic

The colors are more vibrant

The scents are more inviting

The tastes are richer

The air is lighter

When I am with you.

I Have a life, full and rich,

But I know that it is meant to be

Shared.

And I want to share it

with you.

And that the truth is,

Right now

I feel like

Something inside

Of me has died.

And I must grieve

The loss

Of

You.

Because

The truth is,

Maybe

we won't find

our way back

together

again.

Maybe

You are comfortable

enough with

your life

just the

way it is.

Maybe

I misunderstood

what you wanted.

Maybe

you aren't

in as much

pain

as I was.

Maybe

You don't have

the same needs

that I have.

Or Maybe

You don't

Feel

The same way

About me

That I

Feel

About

You.

Time

will

tell.

Till then.

I simply

bleed

while

I breathe.