He knew if was here. If only he had drawn himself some sort of map! He didn’t think he would forget so easily. It had been only two short years when they came to The Rocks. This was one of the well-known tourist spots, only out-of-towners don’t know the story behind the rocks. Now, he would have to search, looking for some clue as to where he buried the box. He thought he had buried it under the “chin” of the rock’s face. Unfortunately, there was no evidence of ever being disturbed and he hated to be the first one to disturb this area. If he found the box he would be able to go home, but if he didn’t he would die searching.
Headline: Man found at The Rocks, clutching wooden box. Death to be determined.
The warmth of the sun lingers on the sand, providing a comfortable bed upon which they lay. Their bodies intertwine, searching for the feeling of comfort and love, finding warm skin and the grit of sand. Having the beach to themselves was like having their own world, with all of the beauty surrounding them; waves lapping at the shore, seagulls touching down for scraps of food, the sun setting slowly at the horizon.
My love for you flows Like the tide of the deep blue Ocean peacefulness.
She sat, the fingertips of her right hand stroking the ivory keys, her left hand massaging the knot that had formed in her neck. This concert was it, the one that would make or break her musical future, and she didn’t want to lose it. The stage remained dark and the seats were all empty, but she imagined they were all there, waiting for her to play, watching her knead the muscles in her neck. She had to remain strong, or at least look strong, if she wanted to succeed. No one found success during moments of self-pity and tears.
The soft shuffle of gentle steps was the only sound now, coming from behind her, from behind the stage’s heavy curtains. She knew it was him, her lover, her support, her lifeline. He would reach her soon and would offer her words of encouragement and love. He was her secret hero; his strength was hers too.
Stepping slowing towards the piano bench, he rubbed his hands to ensure their warmth. He knew she needed him. He loved that she needed him, it gave him purpose. Gently he placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the tension in her muscles and began to knead her shoulders, trying to loosen the stress and strain.
She began to melt under his warm touch. He passed his strength through his fingertips into her soul. She knew she would be okay; she knew she would hold onto his strength for both.
It wasn’t until yesterday that I thought about my brother. He had been in jail for the past eight years and no matter how many times he called to ask for a visit or for money, I couldn’t forget that he was a storyteller, someone who could not be trusted, someone who found excuses for all of the wrongs he has made. No matter how I have tried to separate my life from his, his mistakes continue to affect me like invasive parasites, like tendrils of a weed wanting to ruin a perfect lawn.
So now I sit and read my letter, telling me that his time for parole was coming. I know I must be courageous and hold onto my values, not his. The heat I feel in my gut is the fear of what is to come. If he is to get out of jail, what chainof events is going to lead him to my door again?
For today I will savor my drama-free life, loving the wee things that make me so happy, the first buds of spring, the chirping of the birds, and the smell of the spring rain. I will ignore that sly fox that is about to emerge from his den and enjoy my bit of freedom.