Her eyes are drawn first to the cobblestone, then to her leather shoes. She is taking a careful inventory of how many mortared pebbles will fit inside each footstep. Rolling from heel to toe, she attempts to capture each shade of brown and gray that speckles the path. Losing count with each step, she starts again. The leaves dance restlessly on their branches. She can hear the moisture leaving their veins as they collide, reminding her that she's been here too long. One more pass by the fountain should be enough to catch up with herself.
The corner of her eye finds something out of place, a tiny spark that has escaped the gardener's blades. The petite white blossom pulls her curiosity to the thick blunt tipped lawn. She is left standing at the boundary between stone and grass, wishing for bare feet, remembering how picnic blankets spread out, how they stand proud on top of the earth until we sit and feel the crunch between leg and blade. She looks out, and for a moment, imagines the field is never ending. Over the hill there is a tree, fat with fruit and blossom. There is a blue sky waiting, stocked full of lost impressionists waiting to be discovered and given names. Things only to be seen on lazy afternoons, upside down using the palms of hands and crossed-over fingers for pillows. If elbows fall from the edge of the blanket and start to itch, she doesn't bother to complain. Afraid the slightest movement would mean losing sight of the things she'd found.
Another breeze and the leaves return to their clumsy ballet. There is just enough of the day left so that the light begins a slow vignette around edges of the city. A muted vibrance of pink and orange, melting into the horizon, blurring the boundary between where she is and where she should be. It makes her wonder if the sunset and lost clouds are finally finding one another.
The corner of her eye finds something out of place, a tiny spark that has escaped the gardener's blades. The petite white blossom pulls her curiosity to the thick blunt tipped lawn. She is left standing at the boundary between stone and grass, wishing for bare feet, remembering how picnic blankets spread out, how they stand proud on top of the earth until we sit and feel the crunch between leg and blade. She looks out, and for a moment, imagines the field is never ending. Over the hill there is a tree, fat with fruit and blossom. There is a blue sky waiting, stocked full of lost impressionists waiting to be discovered and given names. Things only to be seen on lazy afternoons, upside down using the palms of hands and crossed-over fingers for pillows. If elbows fall from the edge of the blanket and start to itch, she doesn't bother to complain. Afraid the slightest movement would mean losing sight of the things she'd found.
Another breeze and the leaves return to their clumsy ballet. There is just enough of the day left so that the light begins a slow vignette around edges of the city. A muted vibrance of pink and orange, melting into the horizon, blurring the boundary between where she is and where she should be. It makes her wonder if the sunset and lost clouds are finally finding one another.