Intermezzo andante teneramente
Amy was mostly sky blue. Especially when she laughed. And she laughed often enough that you knew it was part of how she saw. Joy to share. Sky blue.
One long line of laughter and he was gone. Nothing else but to write it down. Nothing else.
Problem was, in the writing it down, it stopped wandering. And she went tired of the adulation. A couple of weeks later he was out. Vagrant.
“I’m sure that sign said Waverly.”
“We’re nowhere near anything called Waverly.”
“Coulda been a sign.”
“Coulda been a cow.”
“They’re doing amazing things with genetics nowadays.”
“Point.” then, “never did tell me a story.”
No. Never did. “We’re almost there.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
“Was also true an hour ago.”
“We’re that lost?”
“Hard to believe.”
“I thought you were from around here.”
“No one’s from around here in a fog like this.”
“Should we call someone?”
“No service out here. Besides, what’re we going to say? ‘We don’t know where we are, and we can’t see anything around us. Can you help?’ ”
“Point.” then, “so I take it we’re not there yet?”
“There is the one place I can say with some authority that we are not.”
And that’s the story really, the one that wraps the others up in one long line of listening. And when it’s done, there will be no more tales to tell, no chord, no pulse.
But until then, there would be stories worth singing.