Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Under the Sky

She lived on Cliftonville Road up by the Botanic Garden and when I walked her home after that first date we sat on the grass in the middle of the Iona Circle, it was a surprisingly warm night for the season, and I listened to her tell me of growing up not eight blocks away, of having her whole family within the same postal code, of how she remembers walking down the very block she now lived on when she was but five or six holding her ma's hand, or her aunt's, or, a little older, running with sisters and cousins toward the gardens on a summer afternoon.

Above us the clouds split apart and Canis Major rose above us, the big dog ruling over our Atlantic sky. From somewhere to the east the sound of someone practicing the violin, Mozart's Concerto in D Major, came toward us on slippered feet.

I said, "Sounds like the most wonderful family." She said, "Aye, but, you know, there are always things." I said, "That would certainly be true."

copyright 2006 by Ira Socol


Anonymous said...

On slippered feet. :-)


Brenda said...

This vignette, that hovers, that borders on ravishment, turns into poetry with the clouds splitting to reveal Canis Major, and Mozart on slippered feet...

The extraordinary in the ordinary - if living in one place all one's life may be called that.