An Afternoon Dream
As I sit looking out of the window of the building,
I wish I do not have to sit in this cubical, far
above the street, and write an official-looking paper.
On schedule.
I look down into the street and see people
walking. Each with its own self.
And how I envy them! None of them knows
about my paper and my deadline.
There is a woman in a bright yellow dress.
She is smiling at the man walking next to
her. He takes her hand in his. A spark of
sunshine bounced on his watch.
A flock of preschoolers is marching the street
corner in a single line like toy soldiers. Their
chatter flapped against the warm air like
a bird’s wings.
Three young men in red and black bowler hats
cross the street. Each with a stiff black box, they
perched against the wall of an
indifferent-looking building.
Street musicians.
An accordion, a violin, and a bass.
A violin box left open for coins, elegant curves
stretched inside worn burgundy velvet.
The accordion man seems very
young. He is smiling.
I inch closer to the window, cup my chin
inside my right palm, and, as is my habit,
begin to dream.
Of the village sprawled beside a wide, lazy
river. A ribbon of emerald green shimmering
under the dome of cornflower skies.
The village I most needed to know, but most
did not know.
Oh, the dusty roads! Oh, the shiny horses!
How have I missed you!
The gilding of your rich embroideries
sways to the summer breeze,
drying with the scent of lavender and
white oleander. For the new brides.
But I fancy I see it all now under the
pretence of watching street musicians.
Golden quinces lined on top of an old
wardrobe carved from walnut made so
heavy that it cannot be moved. Rooted in its
spot for the times immeasurable. Like trees.
Wedding parties piled inside carts pulled by
horses, jewelled harnesses glittering like
diamonds against the pewter-esque winter sky.
Here comes a young gypsy girl, her bare feet
dancing with the first snowflakes. She is
catching them in the palm of her hand; her
laughter flies over the rooftops, over the
tricoloured flags, slicing the air like a knife.
Lavishly decorated cakes lined on tables
joined together for the occasion.
There is that window with lace curtains a
girl I once knew would leave ajar
(accidentally, if anyone asks), waiting for her
lover. Shivering and pulling the sheets up to
her chin, heavy linen brushing her nipples,
back arched in yearning, willing the time away.
She knew he would come to her as soon as
they became too drunk to care for
musicians. Over an old barn wall,
a step to the window accidentally left ajar.
High leather boots and a hat with
pheasant’s feather tucked askew.
Accordion with pearl buttons
slung over the left shoulder.
He always smelt of leather polish, horseshit,
and tobacco. She would bury her face into
his hair, his chest, his groin, inhaling all of him.
Before the first roosters stirred the village,
he would leave her, glistening like furrows
after the first ploughing in autumn.
When they married her off to a distant town,
he sold his accordion and paid the gypsies
to play until their violins snapped and their
fingers bled.
The last snow started to melt when they found
his body. Downstream, where the wide, lazy
river spat it on its bank. Caressing it gently
in its waves. The gash across his throat
fading into oblivion.
And now I fancy I hear that same old story
and the girls dancing like no time has
passed at all, like we have never left the
village with the broad, lazy river rolling with dreams.
Aye, how limited, but how full this dream
has been!
We have visited it all: the colors, the
smells, the love, and the loss… what else is
there to do but stay? And that we cannot do.
Accordion cries across the street.
I turn my gaze to the three young men
playing a song I do not know.
Back to the official-looking paper that made me dream.
