While Waiting

Elements of nature suppressed by the inability to speak come up with alternate methods of communication. Cars make noises as they slide past each other, as if in greeting. Shadows form their own language; contorted into shapes like Chinese characters, they lie at my feet. Overhead, trees tremble with understanding, sending each little leaf into disarray. I look closer. The texture on the bark makes each branch look painted, and I remember it is. Not every artist uses a paintbrush.

There is a charming little house a few blocks over that I happened upon by a fortuitous accident. The paint chips and speckles the closer it runs to the ground. The shadow-plays from the tall trees are like a hint of black magic in the white light of day. Chairs and small tables are assorted in shades of steel blue and truck red on the veranda. Hovering above them, a flock of wind chimes hums softly in loose harmony.

Standing there a mere observer, I was overcome with the urge to amble up the cobblestone garden path and search the door for a little buzzer. I wanted to see who owned the house and listen to their story. It seemed crazy, which made me want to do it all the more. Then I shifted a little to the left due to the natural shuffling of my feet, and caught a glimpse of liquid rushing out of a watering can behind the house. They were there, tending to the garden. I felt silly for being intrigued.

It would be nice to sit on the grass under all those trees. The ground would get a refreshing break from hosting the shadows, which would instead rest on my lap—sketching with air designs on my skin, pulling black lace over my pale thighs. Like patterned tights, only I wouldn't feel them. It'd be nice to write a story about a character living in this charming little house. I wished for shadows and a computer on my lap.