Velvet of my Skin
The Velvet of my Skin
A breeze rolls across my naked body as I lay next to a lover, a flash of memory and I describe it to him.
This reminds me of home, he laughs and asks me if I did this when I was a kid. We laugh and I describe a time when no one had air-conditioning so the windows were all open in the house and describe the way the air smelled mixed with the inside and the outside. We lived next to an orchard and Macintosh apple trees flanked the left side of the house so the air smelled sweet like fresh fruit. It was the time of day when the sun floods every room with a golden glow. It s 7:30pm and our parents have scrubbed us clean and the smell of ivory soap stick to our skin and in our nostrils. It is Saturday evening after a full day outside when time is so fluid means nothing and it never seems to end….
As we lay in bed I am reminded of the feeling of the crisp sheets against our skin from drying them on the line and we say this in unison as a collective moment comes together. I ask, “How do you make a photograph of that?” my head reels…
He asks me if I write and my response is that I have been writing for years as a means of remembering. This single act has carried me thru every relationship, every trauma, every moment of contemplation and silence. Every patient moment waiting for the answer or thoughts to materialize, waiting for the muse, tapping on her door, asking for her help waiting and watching the sunset.