|So Swept Away
Author: Frore PM
Old age, old age, begin again at the old age, where November still embraces their legs in wind Swept chills, where the skies are still a mottled sheet of gray and white, dripping from the sky in intangible floods, dying their hair the same shade.Rated: Fiction K - English - Drama - Words: 396 - Reviews: 4 - Published: 03-08-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2330523
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
So Swept away by you…
Like ages, they are the septuagenarian place holders of an emotion without category. To grow old is the final embrace; the emptiness of Aeolis' hands as winter Sweeps its chill into final recollection, the unquenchable hollow, patterns a nacreous belonging. "Remember when we were young?" She asks.
She does not.
"A time when we were…" A voice centered among a place without reason, "… Without decay, and gravity?"
Her laugh is a crinkled piece of paper, fingers coiled around the chains of the swing set, stubby legs swinging. Osteoporosis left that much. His face is locked in a perpetual smile – did he not heed his mother's warning? – had he smiled for one moment too long? She must have never left his side.
"A time," she laughed, picking up her legs from the ground, cool wind Sweeping beneath them in a spiraling embrace of November, "… When we could run."
Like youth, they are an impeccable transmutation, swept from the rug of unusual contentment to the open field behind the school, grass sticking to their adolescent shoes. The wind-chill becomes a remarkable comfort. The chains, and their hinges, creak like song birds. "Too tired to go on," she laughed;
and he laughed;
and it was a song.
So they Swept the day away beneath a coverlet of gray, white, and November embraces that twirled around their legs.
She did not need her crutches to play this game, the clunky cast of her broken leg weighting her down, dragging her toward the center of the earth.
Her fingers tightened around the chains. "It…" The beginning of a sentence, a statement of confession. "It almost feels like I can run."
She had never seen a brighter smile.
Old age, old age, begin again at the old age, where November still embraces their legs in wind Swept chills, where the skies are still a mottled sheet of gray and white, dripping from the sky in intangible floods, dying their hair the same shade. Osteoporosis makes it difficult to walk. Too many bone breaks. Her legs extend as the wind tears around them as if she is soaring across the playground, pale blue dress flapping like the lips of a whispered memory.
"Amazing…" He reminisces, still locked in that smile. An expression he never left behind. "… How you can still run in your seventies."