It was beginning to look like my Summer would be one of the best, I ever had experienced, but being Cancelled and all.
I looked back to my Spring suitcase, gathering dust on the upper shelf in my memory. I wonder if I reached up high, if I could get to it, changing Summer into Spring once again. Flowers Blooming, Summer Expectations, Tickets to be purchased and, and,
The and, was me having to travel alone, again. It might as well have been but, which sounds more promising than and, but then.
I started to play that game with myself. If I hadn’t chosen that day to, If she hadn’t been so mysterious, If she hadn’t been so foreign, if, if, if.
I thought of going to the beach, as if I had been alone, as if I wanted to meet her by chance once again. I looked around my room, which seemed small in comparison to the rest of Summer. Dusty postcards yet unwritten, and sand from Estonia, or someplace like it, and the thought that I hadn’t traveled this far alone, but there wasn’t anyone in the room with me. Nor was there anyone outside along this lonely stretch of beach, resembling an Autumn scene, with all the tourists gone for the season.
The screen door slammed in the wind, scattering my random notes and unfinished poems of someone I hadn’t yet met, along a Summer Beach, somewhere…
“I dreamed of you”, I said while I wrote. “I dreamed of you on the beach, not paying attention to me whatsoever, taking care of your own business, hiding under your hat.”
I scribbled and I swore. I lined out what didn’t belong, and kept what I thought she would like, if I ever met her, that is.
I felt that she was too aloof to consider someone like me. I gathered up my notes and tried to place them in order. She was here, then there, then….I seem to be missing a page or two right here, which I said while pointing to no one.
Her first words were, “Such a mess! You probably don’t know your head from your heart, not like I do anyway.”
She was right, of course. I needed to get a grip. The Summer was passing me by in this lonely cottage, cheap as they come, but wouldn’t I have wanted it another way?
I was looking for page 3. That’s where I said, “You really add something special to this beach” which sounded like the worst pick-up line that I had ever heard.
The wind blew once again, making more mess than before. She bent down and began to collect the many pages. “Honestly”, she said with consternation. “You are never going to be finished with this, until you find pages 3 and 4.” She sat down on the wooden floor and began to hum a little tune, which I had dreamed of the night before. “What did you dream?” she asked, stopping for an instant with her paperwork, gazing up at me.
“I dreamed that I was lying in bed, but the cottage wasn’t dark. I watched the spiders make their webs on the ceiling, catching the Summer Flies unaware. The screen door was moving, but I couldn’t tell, if someone had come in, or if the wind was playing tricks again.”
“Did you see her?” she asked while continuing with her work. Her fingers stroking the edges of the papers, caressing the words as if they liked it like that. “Did she come into the room?”
I looked up from my table, gaining sudden inspiration to continue my work. The wind blew the curtains in and out, but there still weren’t any other sounds than the wind, and the waves. It irked me that I still couldn’t find pages 3 and 4. They were the key to finding her, asking her to stay, telling her of my life and, and…
My pencil fell onto the floor, making me bend down to pick it up. “Here. Let me help you” she moved over from her pile of papers and reached it at the same time, with our hands meeting and greeting each other. “How do you do?” I asked her, as she looked up at me. “I am doing just fine, looking up at you, wondering why you are sitting here all alone, in a lonely cottage by the sea in the fading memories of Summer?”
My hand was getting cramped with all of my paper scratching. I thought of lying down for a bit, in the late afternoon, not dark, but not light. As I lay there, watching the spiders make their webs on the ceiling, I heard a movement at the front door. I dare not move, not knowing if it was a sign, an ill omen?
I found her gaze to be piercing, slicing holes in my arguments of why I had been alone, why it had been the best thing, and why I found her to be so fascinating. I must have written that on page 3? When I gazed upon her face, her smile, why they seemed so restful to do so?
She took the pencil and twirled it in the air. “Did she come into your bedroom? Did she? I wonder if you wanted her to do so, being who you are?” She got up and went out of the door, without a word being uttered. I just sat there, wondering if I was ever going to be finished with my poem, my story, telling myself that she and I, that she and I were made for each other, but because I hesitated, because I insisted on finishing up, what I had started.
I let the pencil drop, not caring if she reprimanded me for it later on. I was bound and determined not to lose sight of her, not again.The spiders went about their business, as I left the bedroom heading for the front door. I reached the door, just seconds after she had been there, but there was no one to be seen. Just a lonely beach, devoid of Summer Visitors, if there indeed had been any?
I walked along until I stumbled upon 2 pieces of paper lying in the sand. Pages 3 and 4. It seems as if they had blown here, causing my mind to wander, distracting me from my work, daydreams of someone, who I had dreamed about, someone, someone.
“I can’t just lie here all Summer, waiting for you to finish your poem”, she said not angry, but waiting for me to make up my mind about us. “About us spending the Summer with each other, not in your lonely cottage, but in each others company, wherever that might lead us…”
“I’ll always remember her, lying on the beach, as if I had dreamed of her/you. I dreamed of you, I said to her while we gazed upon the Summer stretching out before us. You were on the beach, not paying attention to me whatsoever, taking care of your own business, hiding under your hat.”
“Yes, she said, but I knew you were there. If it wasn’t for my darn hat, then I might have seen you sooner?
“Then I wouldn’t have wasted my time writing poems to you, when I could have been living them…”
“Write them anyway”, she said.
“I love the way you write….”