Last night was a struggle to sleep and when it finally happened, moments later I woke with a start from the sound of lovers on the roof next door. Peering out through my closed wood blinds to see if it was true or imaginary, in the filtered moonlight, their standing silhouettes cantered in the dark with a distinct long white female arm that braced against the half wall separating us. “On the roof?” I thought to myself. “Really?”
Today I found myself standing at a locked iron gate on Charles and Greenwhich streets dreaming at the diminutive Colonial crackerbox with a lovely garden. Both are dwarfed by a painted brick apartment building that looms over its backside. Therein is crammed with centuries of memories and history, including over four decades of my own.
When first I caught site of this nestled structure, the wall shown here did not exist. My ex-husband and I discovered it while riding bikes in the late sixties. The windows were boarded up. The lawn had only bare soil, no plants or trees, not even dead ones. There was a For Sale sign stuck in the ground: $15,000. We screeched to a halt and entered into a short fantasy while a hot wind blew the dust of the yard in the air. At the time, even that amount was a stretch for a couple of hippies. And the house, a room tinier than it is now, could not have accommodated two tall people and an art studio. We rode on.
As I stood there today, I noticed the cherry tree full of fruit, hanging over the wall. It took me back to a night in June, late eighties or early nineties, when an old lover was visiting and we walked by this little enclave. He reached overhead and picked a handful of the sour fruit and we ate them in the dark. Later, too restless to sleep, we carried a foam pad, pillows and sheets to the roof of my building, and spent the rest of the night under the stars. When he heft town, he put a note under a bowl of cherries on my table.
It’s said that home is where the heart is. My fortunate heart exists in many enclaves that gently pull its’ strings: sites, sounds, smells, smiles, colors, memories of richness in people, places of the past, present, and future, and cherries.
May we all spread what we have in our hearts to those who have little, and our smiles feel like home to those alone.
That is absolutely beautiful, Stephanie. Well written, nice illustrations and the cherries that are at this moment in the fruit bowl on my table seem to glow as if they recognised their potential afresh…
I usually reply privately but since I don’t know your name (think of you as Lively) am writing here. Thanks so much for your comment. After reading about blogging and narcissm on your own blog site, I was hesitant, once again for this is always the challenge, to hash through private memories. The value of the personal is in the universal ‘me’, that which connects all of us as humans on this planet. If it can awaken the reader’s imagination, memory, recognition, then to me it works to connect us humans and our cherries, and our loves gone by, our challenges, our joys and sorrows…
Our hearts are linked to so many different memories, scents, glances, gentle touch, a breeze, passing a place that had meaning in one’s youth years later and pondering the changes of time. What a beautiful vision you have imparted!!
isn’t it amazing where we find ourselves.
The title of this lovely piece is so wonderful.
i love your way of sharing these pearls and buds of life.
i also love finding notes under bowls… xo
I sometimes see how we actually swim through an ocean (or at least a lake) of emotions in this life. All that we see as “matter” really only comes alive when our human emotions infuse it. Your reflections are a perfect confirmation of this. Beautiful! ♥ tomas ☼
Thanks so much for all your thoughtful comments, Tomas. I am a new fan of hearltflow and look forward to reading more of your posts.
☼ ♥ ☼