something of the past

The sky was full of blasted-fire and ghosts of the revolution circled the spiny coast of Cape Cod. They had pitched a tent, beside the hand-sewn backyard fruit field--beneath the budded-leaves of a ripe peach tree--made of oversized cotton sheets and oak branches for beams. It grew from the ground, a teepee of sort, taut and strung tight like deer skin over drying posts. There was even a smokestack and jumping red fire. Smoke rose and scattered, among dotted-white stars and distant planets, in strange wavy shapes on the inky sky. It moved as fog would, mostly from the sea--some from rivers and streams--through the far-away hills pillowed with ground-weary dead leaves and dusty brush.

They sat and laughed and drank cheap, Spanish tempranillo from old, rich leather sacks and rolled around for hours in the dewy summer grass. Far-off the sun fingered through the troupe of fresh clouds, mighty fists against the failing midnight, and painted thick, pink strokes of virgin light across the canvassed sky. The soft-hum of bird song bellowed and blew in with the symphonic breath of of the velvet wind.

He woke, slid along the sly, wet Earth, and reached for her warm, sweet-olive skin. Like so many times before he poked at the mess of an evening. But the space she had occupied, once curled into sleep, was now dented with a slight and shadowy curve of her body. The rumpled mound of bed linen, tossed dirt and fallen pine needle, hid, pinned to a cold pillow, his ruffled-red flannel. He swung the shirt over naked shoulders and rummaged the cool, wet, July grass.

His eyes scratched at the half-lit horizon for hers. She sat on her grandfather’s dock, built of thin, grey slabs of wood; her feet dangled and hovered above the slow and muddy river that bled from the ancient waves of the Atlantic. A parade of baby black sparrows flew like torpedoes above the quiet water. There was sadness in her face. Tiny boats roared by with containers of dead fish, gutted and packaged on ice, prepared for an afternoon party.

“You’re up early.” He toyed with the tips of her fingers. She pulled them away and tied them in knot on her lap.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was raspy, tired. She must have taken a swim or something. The deep and mountainous curls, that once flowed, were now flat and dripped into the river. He stood and stumbled about the small, square dock. The dock swayed as he walked one end to the other.

“How about some breakfast?” he asked.

“I’m not very hungry,” she said.

“I’ll make some coffee,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s alright. You know—” he said.

“I do know, Jack. That’s just it,” she said.