I saw you at the stoplight. You were staring straight ahead, yawning. I looked at you, unaware, forgetting how human you are.

I saw you at the stoplight. You were staring straight ahead, your husband beside you. The detritus of your life filled the car. And looking at you, I remembered how human we are.





Papers, like pine straw around a flower bed, were strewn across the desk.





What is it that draws us in when we see someone pass by? What is it that forms an instant connection? Why do we suddenly wonder where this stranger has been, where they are going, and what it is they are facing? What is it, that it fades too fast and is lost?





Sensitive...I am overly sensitive. Given any value of x quantity of derision, I will immediately multiply it by a factor of ten, raised to a square of itself. Thus, my sensitivity can be expressed as equalling 10 to the x squared. My question is, why square it at all?





Everything was neatly penned on small scraps of paper that were indeed strewn across the desk like so much pine straw. And I was an intruder, not only for reading them, but for even being in here. Perhaps I should back up a bit...





...Back in the central atrium, I could still hear the singing woman, though it was faint. Avoiding the potted plants and my friend behind the not so well sealed door, I headed for the source of the singing, Sioctha le heagla. Moving toward the entrance, her voice took on the quality of a siren, beckoning me forward. I was powerless to stop, and stepped across the threshold.



And onto a gravel road. The sky is grey and suggests, with some temerity, rain. A light breeze, not unpleasant, makes the trees sway in anticipation. There is a house at the end of the road, set with no small appreciation for the picturesque, upon a small, well groomed piece of land jutting into the river. The leaves, in muted orange and red, fled from the trees and made their way up the road to the house. I followed closely behind, but with some greater reluctance.



At first glance, the house is perfect. A beautifully done, two story Cape Cod style home. It is warm and inviting. It is a shelter from the storms. It is rich with history, and humbling in its simple beauty. At first glance.



As I walk up to and onto the porch, the boards creaking, I notice that the paint is peeling. I realize that the hanging flower pots are empty. The rocking chairs are missing a slat or two. The screens have the beginnings of rust in the corners. And the windows are murky. The house is showing its age, something a few hours and a couple cans of paint could render invisible again. The house is not so much neglected as in need of some minor work. But the warmth is gone. Maybe from the approaching weather, maybe the wind has picked up more than I realized. I tried knocking, but no one answers, so I step inside. It was then that I noticed the small writing table in one of the front rooms and decided I was a bit nosier than I give myself credit for.



After reading the slips of paper, I looked around a bit. The house is tastefully decorated. Simple, but clean designs. There is a fine layer of dust everywhere; not the dust of abandonment, but of needing some minor attention. I can see no one; I hear no one. The place is silent, and is, dare I say it, like a tomb. A tomb recently brought to its full purpose of holding the dead. A glance here and there about the first floor confirmed my solitude. Or so I thought.

Wandering into the kitchen, I notice that greater care has been taken here to preserve the freshness this home once held. The surfaces are clear from dust, the cupboards are stocked with bland and uninviting canned goods. Several dishes are stacked, clean, next to the sink, in a drying rack. The view from the back window is breathtaking. An autumn scene in New England, complete with a wide river and foliage exploding on the hillsides. The air smells sweet, coming in through an open window. That fresh smell, of rain promised, clears the mind.

I step outside to enjoy the view and am met by an old man, strangely familiar, in a rocking chair. He does not seem to notice me standing beside him, and I make no attempt to make myself known. I don't know why, perhaps I am afraid of what he might say, or what he might be. He stares ahead, lost in the flow of the river. He looks the part of an old man. By which I mean that he is shriveled in on himself. Liver spots mark his face. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, are knotted and bent. He is slightly hunched in his shoulders and gives the impression of carrying a large weight. His eyes are watery and look, pained. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a coarse whisper, barely audible.

"Why have you come?"

And he begins to cry. He is talking to the river, giving no indication that he knows, even now, that I am here. He reaches up with one of his twisted hands, an achingly slow movement, and caresses the face of a young woman suddenly before him. In some twist of common sense, I immediately come to believe she has been there for some time; that it has taken this old wreck of a man eons to ask his question. At the same time, I know that it is a question he has asked countless times of this woman, you can hear it in his voice, in the distress it causes him.

"I've missed you so..."

The only other words I thought I would ever hear him say. He just keeps repeating them, slowly, painfully. And she just gazes down at him, pity filling her eyes. I study her, looking closely, for she too is familiar.

Her attire was reminiscent of the sheer clothing worn by the beauty in The Storm. Every detail of her figure was visible, and yet seemed to be cleverly hidden so that no one detail could be distinguished. The effect was powerful. Revealing, without being pornographic. Sensual, but in a classical sense, rather than in the modern gauche depictions of women. Her hair was raven black in the shadows of the porch, but a dappling of sun revealed hints of a deep auburn. Her hair flowed out and around her face, caught in the wind, heightening her mystery and allure. I am coming to realize that I am falling for her. I want to possess her, and keep her as my own. I want her to smile at me, to make her laugh, to feed her passions and to catch her should she fall. As if sensing my thoughts, she glances over at me and smiles, sadly, and disappears. And the old man cries out in anguish at her leaving, ripping my heart in two. My desire for her is quickly replaced by my guilt for having made her leave, or so it seemed to me.

"Bring her back, please mister, bring her back..."

I have no answer for him. I am impotent before his emptiness, his desires, his needs. As I turn to leave, I see the photos, crudely pinned to the wall behind him. Photos of the woman, and this old man in his youth, laughing, frolicking, living. There are kids and dogs, family and friends. And they are all faded.