“Meanwhile, forgive me but there are other things we must think about: like doing our jobs…showing a bit of ordinary kindness to people, particularly our own families—unkindness to those close to us is such a pitiful th8ing—doing what we can…things which, please forgive me, sometimes seem more important than dwelling on a few middle-aged daydreams.”—Walker Percy, Love in the Ruins
In hills of autumn’s dress, his soul restored, away from world’s race and maddening crowd; where in leave’s change of summer same to revelation of soul and intimate hues, he felt nearer to his own and better witness to another’s.
Together they rested, hillside under changed and thinning canopy that spoke and stirred and scattered in winds across the ridge. Like leaves’ change, in autumn’s waning light, her skin and tone told same, tan of summer lightening, bold freckles softening and blending again with paler, delicate tone, some catching in the light and shimmering as others shone matte like grains of sand on light-toned beach, when looking at them close you cannot the difference of one and another—why one lights, and another holds shade, each seeming the same—but it is a simple wonder and mystery that adds depth and beauty in the contrast.
It shone on her neck and open collar and too in spread over nose and into rose sky of cheeks; and he took in her depth and accents and autumn change with ever as much enjoyment as in gaze of world and hills around.
A daydream played, one that began in shadows and ended in view of blue of sky through canopied frame. In dream’s play, he felt the change of his face, the warmth and hold of blood beneath and painting of cheeks to twilight blush.
Discerning his change: color and countenance, she asked, “What are you thinking?”
“Just a daydream,” he answered without weight, lightness and a liberty like wind over ridge that caught and fluttered leaves from branch in twirling fall beyond the slope of ridge and outward into long-fall drift through sky.
“What does it make you think?”
“That I want to be better…to be more kind, more loving—giving without expectation, simply because it’s there—more compassionate, patient, honest and sincere. It makes me want to give what I can, as I am able, and not worry about an ugliness if I dwelled on the shadow and not all the light revealed.”
“It sounds like a wonderful dream,” she shared, leaning head upon his shoulder as new wind swept sending new scatter of color and leaves and sound into openness of sky before. “It can’t be all that bad, not even bad at all, if that’s what it inspires.”
“I guess not,” he answered, twilight blush deepening in its red as her freckles caught in new-light glimmer, dancing with enchantment in daylight’s gold.
He thought not in the shadows but to the beauty of contrasts: light and warmth of her beside.