Walking the Path
I began to write this morning with two names in mind: John and Sally. The paragraphs below are the result:
John met Sally at the garden gate just as he had for months. At the horizon, the sun blazoned, a gigantic ball of yellow light lifting upward into a lightening sky. The scene had been the same on more mornings than John could count that summer; yet each day had been different too, shaped by nuances that only a shrewd observer would distinguish. It wasn’t always sunny, however. In early spring some days had been dark, with clouds swirling ominously in angry circles; others brought light drizzle that moistened the pair’s faces and flattened their hair. John liked the rain, but not when it peppered him and his girl with heavy drops that stung and forced them into flimsy shelter at the wide base of one of the maple trees that lined the path ahead. Why, in winter, he recalled, the two had even trampled over crusted soil, frozen inches deep beneath their feet. Flurries of snow had swirled haphazardly around them at times on days that were so cold that their cheeks chapped red and their fingers tingled even inside thick, woolen mittens.
This day, though, was one hundred and eighty degrees from that frigid memory. Already the cool night air had given way to warmth that most certainly would intensify. John knew this walk would leave them sticky with perspiration and ready for a tumbler of iced tea when they reached the cabin where Sally lived with her aging mother.
Sally’s fingers slipped comfortably into John’s as they always did when they began their trek. They walked side-by-side, arms brushing, with her stride just short of his. They were together, in sync in every physical way for a time, until their hands separated and they moved apart. It was not unusual for John to forge ahead while Sally lingered alone, stopping to pick budding flowers or simply to gaze into the deep woods that teemed with wildlife.
That’s it! What will happen to John and Sally? It’s a question for another day.