Five Minutes on: Bare
We loved in that bare shouldered way of a man and woman. Of shared breath and space and warmth.
I was a girl, really. Only nineteen, not even old enough to drink champagne on our honeymoon. He was twenty, broad-shouldered and ready to carry me into our life. The weight of it all still light as he carried me across the threshold and we laughed and tried to maneuver my dress and head through the door without concussing me. My veil still coiled tightly around my hair which was fighting mightily against bobby pins and hairspray.
He prefered my hair down long, hanging loosely down my back. After all, we fell in love on white sand, his kiss always tinged with saltwater and his hair bleached white.
I was a fresh-faced girl who loved the sun and couldn’t imagine a day when wrinkles would form across my brow from days spent worrying about bills being paid and water being shut off and that pregnancy test that wouldn’t answer me with hope month after month.
We had everything stacked against us. Youth, immaturity, poverty, sickness, and the blind belief that this world would offer us our dreams lined tidily up for the taking.
I look at pictures, cut and pasted into my scrapbooks, bubbly handwriting captioning each shot with all the bouncy exuberance of a schoolgirl. Even my hand has changed. Hurried script, slashing quickly across pages, show none of the loopy daydreaming. Boxes full of photos stacked awaiting the day they will be sorted and placed into albums. File after file of pictures remain trapped in my computer.
Waiting for time.
And then I see on twitter a link to albums that are now 20 years old. And these are the songs I listened to on my Walkman. Each album reminding me of the mixed tape I had recorded from the radio, carefully stopping and starting the recording when I heard the opening notes and always managing to miss the beginning. These were the years that I had still been young. Was that really twenty years ago?
Waiting for time never comes. It simply passes.
You simply look back on 20 years and it has gone. It is now boxed up and preserved waiting for a moment in the future when the clock will stop, time cracked wide open with photo boxes and projects and memories.
And you know that the bare shouldered girl is gone. She is older and wiser, and she has to fight harder for her dreams and passions these days because the years have tired her. She has to fight for ruby lips and the sway of hair let down for him. She has to fight to relax her face, smoothing the creases, hit the play on her iPod and remember that she used to dance to this song. She used to sway her body and dream and get lost in hope. Maybe that girl is still in there somewhere.
A flash mob of writers, a community of sisters, a glorious chorus of voices knit together in fellowship. Join us? This weeks word: Afraid
1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community.