A swathe of realistic butcher’s grass (the synthetic type) cushioned her feet as she wandered ‘neath the lantern hung trees to the perfect circular day bed – facing the moon which delighted the dark sky above the courtyard green.
They stayed in their own spaces – his trim beard clear in silhouette above the ipad; she doing her yoga – torso, then feet, arms, head visible beyond the wicker sides of the round, cushioned platform. As though co-ordinated, they moved to leave at the same instant.
He smiled. She thought to speak, but crushed the words inside herself – she would have to write seeing she had spared him her story.
She was envisioning a bomb destroying the set piece she saw before her – the various couples, strolling by, the music so cool, the occasional family, people arriving at night with their bags, crossing the lawn to their room for the first time, seeing the trees and the lights and the people. The older woman lounging alone and gazing at the moon, the young man studying his ipad at the table next to her.
She saw the bomber, for whom a hotel with a pool was not remotely in the probabilities.
She could feel that the bomber was right to see her as a wastrel taking privilege while so many had nothing, and his family history was full of sorrow.
She knew it is the way of the world to blame those within sight, for that which is stolen by players in a different game altogether, in which we are pawns.
She recalled living with a rasta man in Jamaica and getting a new room put on the one room dwelling in which he lived with his three children. She talked of glass window panes and he said, “Nah, dem people who na have so much, dey go bruk ya glass”. He told her of folk who had just scraped up enough to buy a second hand car, and found the window broken overnight – by those who had less who did not know how to get just a little bit more. For it was hard times in Jamdown too. Manley had been replaced by CIAga. The economy had gone bust when Manley nationalised their aluminium and USA refused to buy the product any more, or some such deal. Look it up – late 70’s.
She walked to her room, subdued light revealing leaf shape and color of tropical plants lining the realistic looking lawn, Moon at full outshining the hanging lanterns.
Her dreams revealed themselves, like grapes left on a vine after harvest which sweeten and shrivel. The sweetness of Life Force will come to be, ‘ere the body disassembles. Life Force, uniquely sweet in each individual, collective in the unseeded egg of potential, individual here, and recombinant on the other side, which has been brought to this side in genetically modified DNA e.g. rBGH. Are we dissolute, recombinant, or drunk with pride?
She snored gently, a pillow over her head as well as one under. The typewriter l a i d o w n s y m b o l a f t e r s i g n w o r d a n d t h e n w o r l d i t w a s w i t n e s s t o i t s e l f a s e a c h l e t t e r e a c h c o m b o h a v i n g i t s o w n e x i s t e n c e t h e t a l w a y s s y m b o l i s i n g t h e c r o s s w h a t e v e r t h a t m e a n t – s o m e t h i n g d i f f e r e n t t o e v e r y o n e g o i n g b y h e r s e l f a n d s o m e t h i n g t h e s a m e a l s o t o e v e r y o n e w h o c a r e d a b o u t i t.
Everyone has their own story of love. This is what makes us human.
images not of my work in this post..