Spontaneous Prose Piece 2

  He is walking, slowly, steadily, like a waltz, like he’s hiding something but he wants me to see it- one arm flailing a violent HELLO, HELLO, LOOK! and one hand gripped in a choke hold around a paint splattered pot as if he’s grasping his own opaque life, piles and miles of dirt discreetly bouncing off the top with each heavy step- a sticky green stem peeking out with a robust red rose resting on it. This. Is. Life. This is what it is to be alive. I don’t jump up and shriek how incredible it is. I say it with a silent, glistening eye and a mouth wide open in genuine awe, lip nearly touching the summer, autumn, winter, or spring ground. It doesn’t matter what season, what month, what day, what hour it is. The moment should be awkward as a silent movie, soundless and sappy- but it isn’t. He has a charismatic shine in his eyes as if he’s animated, eyelashes tied with silky invisible ribbons. And when he’s almost right in front of me, my face turns to clay stained with tears that didn’t fall. When he is in fact before me, he hesitantly brings both hands to the paint splattered pot, carefully picking his movement, making sure he’s making his hands look most beautiful in the process. He’s written on the paint splattered pot my name in spontaneous eloquence, in a script font and a whirling spin at the end of the a’s, each letter filled with a thought. I have too much to say but I’m speechless ; he has given so much yet his demeanor becomes simple as if his body is saying This is only the beginning. I can do better than this. The best is yet to come, darling. There’s no background music for us to stand there and embrace to, only the music of our surroundings, of the thoughts wildly swimming through our heads. And then he finally moves his crooked arms towards me and I know to put my hands out and take it. I feel the undefined texture of the paint splattered pot at my fingertips and hold it to my chest. The robust red rose resting on the sticky green stem brushes against my chin as he moves in closer. He wraps those arms around me in a choke hold as if I’m the paint splattered pot and holds and holds. It’s wedged between our hearts, connecting our souls, no matter how temporary. This is my consolation prize for living. It’s what my life up to now was lived for. It’s why those experiences were necessary, why I developed my own morals. For that thing that started so small. For that thing that grew and grows. For my flower.