Thank you Help Me Rhonda for the photo
The sun emerges from behind the trees at the beginning of her morning run. She always runs in Central Park. Headphones are blaring a little Foo Fighters to get her heart going and to help her keep pace. It’s a warm morning and a little too humid for Spring. She’s clad in a tank shirt, running shorts, and bright purple running shoes. She loves purple, it’s one of her favorites. Running is too. It keeps her lithe, lean, and healthy. Makes her smile at the thought of pushing her body to it’s limits. Makes her feel alive. Free.
As her feet keep pace with her breathing, she takes in the scenery. The scents and the sounds too. She loves running this route. Looking at the folks sitting on park benches. They’re feeding bread crumbs to the birds and the squirrels. She slides over to the far most side of the path so as not to disturb the animals and their feeding time. After she passes them she slide back to the middle of the path and picks up her running pace.
Her heart rate increases and so does her breathing. She loves this part of the run. She’s run two miles out of her normal three mile trek. With the increase in respiration she can smell the freshly blooming flowers on the path. She loves this time of the year. She knows the lilacs will be in bloom soon. She thinks, what is better than the aroma of those purple beauties? She sees new leaves on all of the trees. Everything is so green. Even she feels young and new today.
Then she sees it. It stops her dead in her tracks. Her heartbeat is heavy in her ears, her breathing still quick and her body does not want to rest yet. But she has to stop. For she sees in the path, a lone stalk of new wheat. It is green, glistening and bent over with the weight of morning dew. The sun hits it perfectly. She is mesmerized because it reminds her of home. Of Michigan and of younger days and running in wheat fields. It reminds her of her first kiss. Laying in the wheat field behind the farmhouse she lived in as a kid.
She walks up to it and then drops to her knees to take a closer look. She decides, what the hell and lays down next to it. Just like when she was a kid. From this angle she feels 15 again. She remembers kissing that boy in the wheat field. She smiles and looks at the stalk. She sees the sun shining through the dew. Reaches out and touches it lightly with one fingertip. She touches the dew drenched tip to her lips and remembers him.
🙂 Thanks for making my morning a bit brighter.
That’s so sweet. I didn’t even think it was very good. I just loved the picture. 😉
That’s the problem with authors. They are their own worst critics. It made me think of first kisses (and, unfortunately, how long it’s been since the last one, lol) and remember the kind of things that your fictional character might have been thinking about while lying there looking at the dew on the lonely wheat stalk. [8>])
a lovely summers poem, all is good with the world now…
Yes my sweet woman it is. I’m glad you liked it and I cherish your comment.
lol, love you my dear but just so that you know, my avatar is maybe slightly misleading with a sexy girl (my ex actually) but I’m a guy… don’t mind being called a sweet woman though, thats a compliment anyday… big kisses now.
My dear that’s even better that you’re a guy. And your ex is gorgeous! Hate her now. Hahahahahaha! Next time I’ll just call you my sweet. How does that sound. 🙂
My dear that’s even better that you’re a guy. And your ex is gorgeous! Hate her now. Hahahahahaha! Next time I’ll just call you my sweet. How does that sound. 🙂 Oh and kisses to you too.
😀 that sounds like a good solution… ok, we were together when we were 15-17 years old but if I would have known that she would grow up to be a total knockout I would never have accepted it when she dumped me LOL.
Hahahahaha! I’m sure you will find another beauty if you haven’t already.
Just lovely…for a dreamer like me…
I’m glad you’re a dreamer. It means I’m not the only one who has them. Sigh.
Renee, I had so many pictures go through my head as I read this. It’s the kind of story that puts soft smiles on my face. I loved the idea of her (you) lying on the ground beside that lone stalk of wheat, feeling 15, and remembering a most cherished moment. Touching the dew to her lips was an especially lovely moment and one I can imagine doing myself. Those who write tend to critique themselves the harshest, as you said here, but the way I look at it…once you’ve written it and put it out there; it’s ours to see, believe, feel, as we will. So thank you for giving me the kind of smiles I love the most, the soft ones.
Every word you said is so incredibly sweet. I’m glad you felt what I felt. And felt even more. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one that would have lain on the ground and touched the dew to her lips. I’m kind of romantic and silly like that. Not silly, really. Just a romantic and passionate woman. I try so hard to remember the experiences of love in my youth. The newness of every moment. It keeps my soul young. Though I tend to get my tender heart wounded by the memories. Thank you again Rhonda. I’m sure I’ll see another photo of yours and become inspired again.
We are alike in that way Renee. Romance has always been part of my inner self, though sadly hard to find on the outside. When there is an occasion to go inside and feel romance again, I do. I also think we share the passionate side of things…come on, anyone who swears as much as we do perhaps feels things a bit more than the average she devil. Wounds are tricky…there, yes; sad, yes; fatal, no. That’s the thing. We’ve survived the woundings, kept our romantic and passionate natures, and are still vibrant, vulnerable yet strong women today. Not bad yeah? I would be honored for you to find another of mine that would inspire a bit of romantic reminiscing, happy or sad matters not. I like a good cry as much as a soft smile. I tend toward the lonely when I photograph from emotion…but if you find anything that moves you…it’s yours.
We ARE very much alike. It’s amazing to me that I can still feel the same about something that happened to me 20 years ago. I really do believe that the passionate, romantic ones carry and feel those feelings more strongly than most. It’s in our nature. We over think, we yell more, swear more, feel more. It’s what we do. We hurt more, but because of that hurt we are stronger. People come to us, to support them because they know that our shoulders are strong even if our hearts break easily. Mine breaks all the time for the simplest reasons. But I know that the next day after it breaks I will find another reason for it to mend. And that honey, is the beauty of this life. Isn’t it?
Absofuckinglutely! That’s it exactly and couldn’t have said it better. Here’s to us…the wounded warriors with big shoulders and bigger hearts. Wouldn’t have it any other way. 🙂