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Poco Piu Mosso

Poco Più Mosso

~

The waves have picked up slightly, settling into a soothing rhythm, taking me further out to sea.  Reminding me of a time when I used to have rhyme and rhythm to my life, order governing everything I did.  I used to think it was wonderful—beautiful even—how my life was organized and neat, each action planned weeks earlier, all part of a grater symphony piece.  But then I realized, when all the other players had left, I was still there.  Still going through the notes transcribed into measures from who-knows-when.  Still going through the same actions of life transcribed into timetables ever since I was born.

The waves continue to rock the boat back and forth as I lie down, staring up at the ceiling from under the deck.  The rhythm continues, but unlike the frustratingly colorless rhythm that had governed my life for so long, this one contains variations, bits of color added in, and the occasional syncopation of uneven notes that never fails to take me by surprise.

I relax into the mattress, letting the tension seep away from my shoulders.  I close my eyes as I think of how the rhythmic melody of my life has changed.  From bland and colorless notes sprung staccatos and marcatos, tempo changes and key changes and meter changes until it was all this one big whirlwind of change and color and life.

~

The boy strolled along the beach, much like he had done for the first time only a few weeks before.  This time though, he didn’t shiver when the waves touched his bare feet.  This time he laughed, openly and whole-heartedly, and welcomed the embrace of the cold water.  He let his feet sink into the sand with every step he took, relishing the feeling of it between his toes.  And everything was beautiful, and everything was wonderful, and oh, how it felt to have a purpose in life, to be aware of the fact that he was actually living.

She was waiting for him, he saw, and then slightly quickened his pace.  She turned to smile at him, alerted by the sound of splashing water.  As he neared, nearly at a run now, he suddenly got an idea as a playful smirk crept onto his face.  Her smile got wider as he came within earshot, and opened her mouth to call out a greeting—only to be met with a dose of saltwater to the face.  She sputtered indignantly before running after him, intent on getting back at him.  But while she was preened and pampered at home, she still could not get the better of what her father would call a “ruffian” who had spent most, if not all, of his childhood running outside, enjoying the freedom of the outdoors.

She finally stopped, collapsing on the beach a little farther up where the water couldn’t reach, and held up an arm to concede defeat.  He sauntered over, smirk firmly in place, before plopping down on the sand next to her.  “So I win?” he asked.  “Again?” he added afterwards.

She slapped him lightly on the arm.  “I don’t even know why I try anymore.  But I do know that I will win one of these days.”

“Sure you sill,” he agreed, but his grin told her otherwise.  Then his eyes turned slightly more serious, though still playful.  “Though you are getting better…” he amended sincerely.

She smiled back at him.  “You bet I am.”

It was already low afternoon and the sun was beginning to sink down over the horizon, spilling drops of orange and yellow across the sky as she watched.  She turned to look at the boy beside her, remnants of sunlight lingering on his hair.  His eyes were slightly glazed over as he watched the sunset no longer needing to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of light on water.

He got up and stretched, walking towards the ocean before turning to look back at her.  “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.  “Maybe explore that side of the beach…you know…”

They walked side by side, seemingly towards the sunset, in knee-deep water.  The remnants of what little light was left danced along the water, caressing the cures of each wave until dusk fell, turning everything into a monotonous gray, and they parted ways.

End Poco Più Mosso