Dusty Memories

When I found you the sun had already settled comfortably between the trees. The sky blushed deep red as I sat cross-legged beside you on the grass. Crickets hummed a nostalgic melody, of years as they scurried through the exit door. I’ve realized that time is a thief with a story to tell, of sleepy eyed boys with milky skin and fat curls for hair. I want to watch you forever as you indulge on half-opened dreams, drifting gently into sleep.

While no one looks I pretend that I’m a rock star, posing and winking for an imaginary audience. There’s Mr. Mouthwash, who’s tall, regal form smells of fresh mint leaves. With my hair fastened into a loose ponytail, I can relish the swish, swish sound as I bob my head to music. Miss Soap Bar’s shiny crown of bubbles always makes me smile. I squint and pose, jerking my hips to the left, to the right. Someday, when I’ve gone public with my talents (so far the bathroom's been my only stage) they’ll ask me in an interview, why I started. I’ll have to bring my yellow toothbrush, Mr. Mouthwash and Mrs. Soap Bar, remembering to ignore the shocked smiles, thinking They’ll never understand.

With tender skin and translucent hair, the elderly, eyebrowless woman emerged from morning’s stringy fog stopped over a crooked cane, her dry, bloated tongue increasing her struggle to breath in the thick and frigid air.