Tuesday Afternoon [kris]

Cool water envelopes my naked toes as I sink my foot into the puddle on the cracked and slanted sidewalk square in front of my building. Shifting my weight onto one leg I slowly slide my foot vertically out of the puddle, watching the water change shape. The last drips drop off the tip of my big toe. Ripples rest, and the surface of the water is still again.

Standing straight I look ahead. The street stretches out from where I stand. Streetlights, store fronts, city dwellers, a few cars wrapping up the back end of evening traffic—Magnolia street unfolds into the horizon like a freshly thrown tablecloth. Gaze fixed, I squint to let the hard angles and edges become soft silhouettes. Familiar forms become horizontal layers of soft grey, lavender, and periwinkle. Higher up I find dreamsicle orange and lemon chiffon, topped with spoonfuls of delicate meringue. There is moisture underneath my tongue and for a moment I believe I’ve really succeeded in tasting the sky. I can smell it too. A light and sweet aroma. Warm. Smooth and cool, tart and sweet, intermittently across the landscape of my senses. Eyes fully open again, I step over the puddle and suddenly the sky is close to me. I reach up and glide my right hand through the soft meringue and it billows like fresh snow, then becomes liquid and rolls in vertical droplets down in front of me like the watery paint I’ve pulled across canvas so many times. The little drops of liquid sky roll slowly over the top of my hand. The touch of each droplet is cool and light. As they traverse my skin the follicles they touch tingle and hairs stand on end. I turn my palm up, and the droplets slowly roll across the inside of my wrist and begin their freefall toward the ground, settling and forming a tiny new puddle.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a shimmer and my gaze is drawn to the right. The layered bricks of burnt and raw sienna that lead to my apartment window are aglow. The hard concrete has become warm. It’s still solid, but when I reach out and lay my palm flat against it the feel reminds me of a pillowcase against my cheek. I trace the crevices between the bricks, where mortar once was. They’ve become like silk scarves wrapped between my fingers.

I begin to jog, and quickly find the rhythm-- no ipod needed. I sense a melody somewhere underneath the concrete. Playful notes that dance over audio peaks and valleys without resolve. Time passes and I realize that my footfalls are no longer collisions against concrete; my steps are both anticipated and received. Soon I notice that the colors are shifting. Meringue and lemon have moved slowly over me. Grey and lavender lift to reveal deep violet and warm indigo, accented by a dusting of silver. In the subtle approach of dusk the sweetness of the air prevails, bidding me to slow my pace. I’ve run far enough outside the city to be surrounded by trees instead of buildings. Solid browns and lush greens. Trunks strong and safe. I linger, surveying the trees, and am drawn to a willow close by, the tallest tree I see. Underneath his lanky branches, I sit between exposed roots. With my cheek against the tree’s chest, I listen. Pressed against the tree I sink into the melody beneath the grass. Peaks and valleys cease to a soft tune in a lower key. Soon, held by the land, I will sleep. Knowing she remembered.