The sky is big here and the fields are wide. Lawns can be measured in feet but most commonly are more likely to be measured in acres. Still time and some far distant industry has caused a small settlement to spring up, the houses within calling distance if you wished to raise your voice.
It didn’t take long; maybe a month before a local gossip filled us in on the most scandalous community items…(sometimes it doesn’t pay to try to listen politely). Some was common knowledge such as the mother under house arrest for committing vehicular manslaughter while DUI (unknown to us only because of our recent move to the area). Others were more speculation than anything else; a death ruled a suicide that might have been something more sinister, forbidden love triangles and arson accusations. I would imagine that’s pretty standard in a small community where everyone knows everyone else’s business or at least thinks that they do.
People being people, life goes on despite wagging tongues and prying eyes. Tragedies on a large scale seem to send those tongues into overtime. Everybody loves a shooting star as it burns bright and then dies. Scandal always makes for a "good story"… garish explosions as lives go down in flames, burn bright and then fade. The community at large is not interested in lives of quiet desperation. The stories of those who measure out the hours of their days holding close some horror or fear don’t make you tsk or draw a laugh. They thankfully go unnoticed by the watchers and gossips.
We live amidst unfulfilled dreams.
He is tall and pale with winter blue eyes set off by the salt and pepper beard. I watch the small dogs trail after his contradictions; a man’s voice and a boy’s gaze.She is slight of build with a pixie face framed by dark hair. A sweet sprinkle of freckles fall across her cheeks and I hear the soft accents of the Maritimes in her voice. He trails after her contradictions; a smile on top hides the ache underneath. Under the bluster they dream a dream to love, to wear his or her face.
I have only to turn to see the others. He’s a mystery. Her sorrow is open. Small and faded red scotch with back rubs for the sheep and hugs for Scotty the collie. The old red brick Victorian with the backyard pool mocks the dreams of visits, walking the fields, eating the apples from the orchard. It’s time to move on.
So much love to give and each the universe denies.
Not newspaper or gossip worthy really…over looked in even so small a community as this. Like the widow a month after the funeral; Her husband is buried, the casseroles are all eaten, the flowers have faded and she’s left alone with her grief, to live day after day carrying the horror of her sorrow and her fear.
We live amidst these unfulfilled dreams, within calling distance of both. Although they might be happy to hear my voice it is not the one they listen for, hope for and dream of. Some distances cannot be measured in feet, acres or even time itself for that matter. Some distances must be measured in the hopes, fears and dreams of those living lives of quiet desperation.