Please post the link to your weekly Slice of Life in the comments to this post.
Remember, you may also complete the weekly Slice of Life in your Writer's Notebook.
Running the thumb
Over the foothill region of the hand’s heel,
Tracing the life line
At intervals in time with breathing.
Thinking,
Waiting for a more precise purpose to write.
Intrigued, but hesitant
of the novelty in a storyline
depicted in the commercials three years ago,
I never bought in and went to see it.
But, tonight, I sit in quiet attention
as the final hour and a half
of the film adaptation
of an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story
weaves the lives of three real hearts together
in an authentic dance of attraction, denial, and an eventual truer love –
just as the pendulum of real life
moves us together when we are supposed to be
and apart when we are not.
Later,
through the plopping, soprano gurgles of the sink
and the muffled mashing of lather against my face,
I recall the simple evening pleasure
of taking the whole two-minutes
to brush my teeth
and move bubbles in circles
from cheeks
to bridge of my nose
around eyes
down jaw to chin
at eight forty-five,
now, eight forty-six p.m.
As I bump open the linen closet door with my damp fingers,
and dry my face with the nubby, welcome texture of a mint green hand towel,
one half of a phone conversation is audible in another room
whose pancake batter-, diluted tea in the bottom of the cup-colored light
comes into the hallway
as cicadas’ manic percussion
makes its ways in through the house’s single-pane windows.
Lying on the couch, waiting for the lines I composed
about the sink’s voice and the sound of bubbles exhaling on my face
to mean something,
Mom calls – for the third time in fifteen minutes –
saying, “I won’t bother you any more, but…”.
And I think “No, no, it's not really a bother;
I need your calls, and contented voice – they are what I want –
particularly in a time when I don’t have a direction…”.
Even nodding off for three or so hours,
I dream of finishing a conversation
that started today about Brad Pitt movies,
eager to update my opinion
with the aching, alluring, caring film from this evening.
As we meet to talk in my unconsciousness,
a
t i d a l
w a v e
arrives –
traceable back to the waters of Katrina invading
the closing scenes of the New Orleans-bound Benjamin Button –
awakening memories of uprooting anxiety
of another day ten years ago
when my world as a high school senior
was jarred like a plastic snowglobe pushed off a shelf,
the flecks of “snow” make scratching hisses, cries, and rattles
against the protective bubble.
At one fifty-seven a.m., I now recall: There is a clarity that comes with slicing, a pride of thought and effort that emerges almost by surprise from the foggy uncertainty of being invited to reflect and communicate those (bitter)sweet moments where we know we are living, even if it hurts.
The film this evening reminded me of a song from an aged cassette tape of Oldies music we used to listen to and sing along with on long car rides in Mom’s Toyota station wagon. In The Brown’s “Three Bells,” there is a composure and a calmness coming in that reminds, “All we have is this moment” to be; we are here now, no matter what.