RuStLe of a SundAy stRoLL

Pressed of a dream with light. Leaning. Against. Downward force. With. Closed and open. Willing. Wanting that entry. Impermissible. Forgotten. Forged. Reinvented in red-that boisterous color. My fragile painted skin recepting wind. A breeze through the vast tunnel. Zoom.

Contine to dream, smile. Body warm-yet cold and lost. Like that building half deteriorated. Half torn. Demolished.. piles of brick and stone.. prediction of a musty smell... What used to be? Who was there? Corners rounded from weather and age. I cycle back to that memory- a dark hall- a wall. Taste of dust. Ballroom music and fancies. Ruffles. Marble. Silk. Pillars. Pressed with a stare. Like Merced. Decisions and decay.

Road-side. Orange berries grow and sway in candy land. Church goers go-books clenched. Threads chosen with care. Late comers come. Groggy-eyed, home. Crimson fruits grow... tempting.. not where the plastic bags in branches lay. Litter.

Family spotted. Not too far. From me. Scruffy. Ginger bread beard. Holiday time. Grizzly, gorgeous. Double stroll-her and double sleep. Baby dolls clenched. Companions.

Cold and chilling metal, they say, unhealthy for a sit. Noise.Leaves racing along ground. Trees sway, brushing the hum. Hymn. Occasional motors-vibration, drag of feet. Passing me- flee.

Grid of ground-a slow walker. Reinvented. Reinforced. Stick. White tape like hospital bandages. He smiles and chats. With an elderly Louisiana twang, his voices is weak, with a stranger not seemingly so. Actually-not southern USA at all...

I think they are right-cold metal isn't a spot to sit. Frozen buns. Broken bible binding next to me.. he finds the sport section more entertaining. So what? With the race of mind, turning up the volume, I lift. So cold, even canal. Anticipating roll, we gather. Huddle. Wanting. That open door.

Tiny and shriveled less than his wife, Louisiana still standing. Leaning. Eye glasses with a chain of tiny metal beads. From the chain of a pen in the bank. So happy-high cheeks, them both. Struggle with step, I escort him on. Arm-in-arm. For the big step and beyond -Forced into slow motion, he thanks. Slowly sits. She asks him "Where have you been!?" Giggle.

Observed from behind, they gesture. Converse. Enthusiastically. A pink gauze Sunday hat and fuzzy blue with snaps, I think of how long their conversation has lasted. Fifty plus. Sixty plus.

Elevens up, loving their Sunday stroll. And for this, I love mine too.