Artwork and Writing by Audrey J. Ross May 2018
There was something beautiful about the way the clouds blotted out the summer sun. It was something intense and passionate, something that demanded the whole world stop and wait for what was about to come. There was something special about the way the tall grass of the field brushed against my skin—gentle, but with a purpose and a promise of excitement. The whispers of the swelling winds spoke honeyed words that hung in the heavy air with anticipation. There was a moment of stillness before the storm. It was hot, and the air was sweet with blossoms and nectar. The taste of raspberries lingered on your lips. The first heavy raindrops crashed against us. We kissed through a veil of rain, and lightning streaked across the sky. The clouds danced only for us, the roaring thunder echoed by the beating of our hearts.
The Memory Box It was on a warm, humid morning early in the summer, when the June bugs were singing and the dandelion seeds drifted upwards to the sun like snowflakes in reverse, and the world seemed sort of magical, that I met you. You were dancing barefoot in the field among the wildflowers – and what you were doing there, I still have no idea – with butterflies and beetles pausing to watch and drink nectar from the wreath of violets resting atop your black hair. I remember watching you twirl, the sun on your skin and the breeze ruffling your green dress; you seemed as delicate as the Queen Anne’s lace and as radiant as the tiger lilies. “Come dance with me,” you laughed when you saw me, standing off to the side observing in wonder. “I can’t dance,” I replied, even as you smiled and took my hand, pulling me into that miasma of sweet-smelling pollen. It was as if the flowers turned to you, a brighter, more beautiful light than they received from the sun. It was like the birds in the trees sang songs to match your bare,
dancing feet. It was as if I had known to dance all my life, but had never truly done it, as I danced with you in that meadow. You followed me back to my grandfather’s cabin, where we sat on the porch drinking lemonade and you asked me a hundred questions about my life. I remember how disappointed you looked when I told you I didn’t live at that cabin, that I wasn’t there every day to dance with her in the field. The smile was back on your face after only a moment. “Then we’ll dance as much as we can while you’re here,” you beamed. You pulled me to my feet, and I followed you through the woods, watching you flit among the roots as gracefully as the deer that ran the paths. You lead me back into that field of wildflowers, and we danced and laughed as the day faded. The sunset lit the sky on fire, bathing you in a glow of oranges and pinks. The chickadees and June bugs gradually left the field for home, allowing the crickets and peep toads to fill the evening with a new song. There were so many fireflies that it felt
like we were dancing among the stars. The full moon caressed the meadow with silver light, reflecting on dew drops that settled over the closed petals of the wildflowers like a myriad of tiny mirrors. Our energetic dancing wound down to a calmer, more intimate dance, and with you swaying gently in my arms, I couldn’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be. I don’t know how many summer nights I spent with you in that field, under the stars and moon, among the fireflies and frogs, in enveloping heat or cool rain. However many nights we danced together, I wish we could have had more. There came the inevitable day in late August that I had to say goodbye – my last visit to the cabin for the summer. My grandfather would be leaving it for the winter to return to civilization. It was a day we knew would come, one that we both wished we could put off indefinitely. “I have a gift for you,” you told me when we met in the meadow. It was a day much like out first together – sunny, hot, humid – with the last of the season’s dandelion seeds drifting around us. “Close your eyes.”
I did as you asked. I felt you fasten a cool metal chain around my neck, and as your delicate fingers finished clasping the chain together, you took my face in your hands and kissed me. Your lips tasted of honey, and your hair smelled like the lilac bushes that grew at the edges of the meadow. When you pulled away, I lifted up the pendant hanging from the silver chain you had fastened. “It’s a prayer box,” I said, examining the silver filigree box. I unhinged its tiny lid. “It’s a memory box,” you corrected with a smile. You plucked a single dandelion seed from the air and placed it into that box, and together, we closed it. “I’ll wear it every day,” I promised, “and I’ll write to you, too, as long as you’ll write back.” “Always,” you smiled. And we danced. We danced through the afternoon and into the sunset, the birds and humming insects lending their music, laughing as we danced away the last hours of the best summer of our lives.
A Sailor’s Tale The first time he saw her, he was a young man, and she was perched on the bowsprit. The sun caught her copper hair and glimmered on her turquoise scales. She sang of cities beneath the waves and long-forgotten gods with a voice as clear and bright as bells. The men cheered and applauded, and she smiled and laughed as they raised their mugs of grog and begged for her to sing another. He strode across the deck through the throng of drunken sailors, and she looked at him with eyes the color of sapphires. And she sang. She sang only for him, a ballad of shipwrecked sailors and daring rescues. Her voice wrapped tendrils around his heart and held him captive. He could hear her song in his head even after she had finished, and in his sleep long after she had gone. The next time he saw her, he was first mate under a different captain. She
poised on the starboard railing, her tail dripping glistening puddles on the deck. Her beauty was unchanged, her songs of pirates and sea monsters as enrapturing as ever. Her sapphire eyes locked with his and peered into his soul. She sang his song, and he wished he could leave his post and swim away with her. When her song was done and the crew was cheering for more, she handed him a shell, heart-shaped and pink. When he sat alone in his cabin that night, he whittled a tiny hole and strung it on a cord around his neck. He was still wearing it when he captained his own ship years later. He sailed tirelessly until she came, sitting on a cannon and leaning on the rail. He gave her a coin that he had carried since their last meeting, and she smiled and sang. The waves themselves silenced for her voice. The sun had weathered his skin over the years, but she remained unchanged. She reached out to touch the shell around his neck as she sang the song that followed him into his dreams.
It was a long time before he saw her again. He was a seasoned captain, sailing well past his earned retirement. A life on land would never quiet the song in his heart. His left foot was crippled from a run-in with pirates, but he carried on. She came at night, the moonlight dancing on that copper hair and glimmering on those turquoise scales. She sat at the prow above the mermaid figurehead. The sailors hurried from their hammocks to hear her music. Melodies left her lips and lit the night more than the stars ever could. His crew danced and drank while she sang and laughed. He paid the young men no heed, his eyes locked on her moonlit face. He retired shortly after, but he could never leave the sea. He bought a lighthouse and spent every day on the pier. More than once he thought he saw a glimmer of turquoise beneath the waves, but he only heard the songs in his dreams. When she finally came to him, he
was an old man. His bones ached and his crippled foot could barely support his weight. He hobbled to his seat at the end of the pier early on a grey morning. She sat on the edge of the pier, the coin he had given her so many years ago on a necklace of delicate seaweed and pearls. She sang for him, and his pains drifted away on the wind. She sang every song she knew, as the grey morning gave way to a drizzling afternoon and a clouded evening. She sang until his eyes closed, a smile on his face.
There is a strange point in time when the warmth begins to fade, when the sky’s colors fade to grey and the leaves begin to rest. The summer storms give way to autumn rains that carry a bitter chill in the heart of every drop. The heavy din, heralded by thunder and steaks of light, falls empty and hollow on defeated blossoms. The drumming that was once a dance slowly sinks into a dirge. The fire of summer is dying, ashes growing cold atop embers that never truly die. The footsteps trodden through the grass are becoming lost as the blades bend in surrender to the fall showers. The spark of lightning is merely an afterimage in misty eyes, the roar of thunder a far away echo. There is a dryness behind lips that parted for lovers, now sealed tight. There is a solitude in the greys and browns that enter the world, slowly overtaking the vivid hues of warmer times. The chaos of the storm is over, and time breathes a mournful sigh.