Fly Away Home - - (tharntype novel english TXT) 📗
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THE SHOVEL BLADE WAS dull and a few tines were missing on the rake, but persistence proved successful. After tilling a small part of the land, I transplanted the jasmine to its new home. I’m dirt-laden on the outside but somehow cleaner on the inside. Acting upon this impromptu visual sensation has caused something to shift at my core. It’s tipped my life in a direction and to an extreme I’ve never experienced before.
My elevated mood weakens when I return to the kitchen sink. Scrubbing my hands to remove the layers of fertile soil, I look out the window, forlorn. The space before me is devoid of that immediate presence and intoxicating scent. Only a spirited breeze will carry that distant memory to me now. My thoughts drift upstairs to my bedroom.
Dillon’s book remains buried at the bottom of my bureau drawer. I never once thought about him while embarking upon my fulfillment of this vision. Is my remembrance of him already beginning to slip away? It consumes me with guilt and worry. My all-too-human heart tugs at me for attention. Will I be nothing but a fading memory to someone? To anyone?
I pour a glass of lemonade and catch sight of the crumpled paper bag. I’m not an artist, nowhere close to it. But there is inspiration wrapped up in those scribbles of that ethereal dream. It’s like they came from something inside and outside me at the same time. As if some creative genius intervened to beget a work of art I never would have been able to construct on my own. I was the channel for some form of beautiful and divine intervention.
The peaches and plumbing supplies still rest on the counter. That void between need and want resurfaces. Maybe there is something between them. Or perhaps it’s a mix of the two. Those peaches. The image of Hank and Lydia walking together hand-in-hand. The conversations I’ve shared with both of them. These thoughts illuminate a path like fleeting firefly flashes on a summer evening. They lead me to discover a place in the shadows I didn’t know was there. We each have a need to be wanted and a want to be needed.
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I TAKE A SEAT ON THE same rocking chair, staring across at the jasmine plant. It waves back at me in the freshening breeze. A faint trace of its fragrant aroma reminds me it’s not that far away. I place my glass of lemonade on the side table and exchange it for the plumbing coupler I brought outside with me. I’m trying my best to understand all the details of this unfamiliar task before I begin it. I’ve undertaken nothing this ambitious before. But my self-confidence has rebounded some. Will it be enough?
I trace my finger over the circular opening of the coupler. It’s a form of yogic meditation for me. Random words filter through my consciousness. Infinite. Whole. Timeless.
Gazing back across the yard, I smile. I’ve been greeted and helped by a piece of my divine existence to conjure up this joint floral creation. Fixated on it, I notice in my peripheral vision something stirring to my left. Allowing my eyes to relax and accept a wider view, I see a sketchbook. It’s the same color as the phlox in my future garden. A hand moves across its pages with crisp strokes of delicate artistry.
I watch Jack work in silence, willingly captive to each of his movements. All his focus is on the front porch. But a sideways glance shifts his gaze every few moments. To the solitary jasmine plant nestled among the overgrown weeds surrounding it. Does it distract him, or is he drawn toward it?
He doesn’t notice me. I stay as still as possible so as not to disrupt his concentration. At first I’m hesitant to engage emotionally, but an insatiable sense of curiosity tempts me. Even from this distance, he communicates so much through his eyes. I long to see how he conveys his thoughts and vision through charcoal and lead onto a piece of paper.
Another chickadee lands on the jasmine. Could it be the same one from earlier? Jack’s attention is instinctively pulled toward it. His pencil movements stop midstroke. I watch him watching it before I shift my gaze to the small bird. We share the same delightful vision for a moment. Does he see the same things I do? Are the colors and textures as vivid for him as they are for me?
An alarm blares in the way of a ringing phone from inside the house. It pierces the tranquil melody of our afternoon song. The chickadee flies, crossing the direct path between Jack and me. We each follow its flight until our eyes find each other. They lock for what seems like forever. Being seen doesn’t bother me, although I suppose it should. I only hope to escape this dizzying whirlwind of spiritual adrenaline. My mind begs me to look away, but I can’t.
It’s Jack who does so first. He gathers his supplies and flees down the street in a rush. I want to chase after him. I need to stay put. Caught in that void between those two words again, I drift through an emotional wormhole.
I stare into my lap. My finger traces circles around the opening of the copper pipe. I gaze back toward the garden and watch it blossom in my mind’s eye again. The vivid color of that phlox matches the cover of Jack’s sketchbook. Complementary but disjoint thoughts filter through my mind. One from the present and another from the past.
The coupler in my hands helps facilitate a transition. Between two things that don’t naturally fit together. And the name of that vibrant pink flower derives from the Latin word meaning “flame.” Something about this fire burning inside me certainly doesn’t fit, but I can’t make any sense of it.
I stare at the copper circle in my hands, continuing to trace my finger around the edge. The shape is both mesmerizing and maddening. No matter where I find myself along its path, everything looks the same. Is this nothing but a hallucination? I’ve had vivid dreams before, but none so alive as this one. If this experience was only a product of my overactive imagination, does that make it any less real?
I sit there for ten minutes, or hours. I’m not sure which it is. A weird sense of déjà vu draws me back into the present. I glance to the left, but a vacant space on that empty sidewalk taunts me. There’s no evidence of anyone having sat there. And no proof that a single penetrating gaze has turned my world upside down.
Upon recognizing the familiar ringing from inside, I jump from my seat and fly into the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Claire? I wasn’t expecting to reach you. I figured I’d leave another message.” So I didn’t imagine it all.
“Hi, Russell. I was outside, doing . . .” How do I explain what just happened? It might be impossible. “How long ago did you call?”
“Five minutes, ten at the most.” It felt so much longer. Time distorts certain moments. It stretches and morphs into something infinite. Like a circle. “You’re in the foothills, right? Not at some insanely high altitude?”
“What? Why?”
“You seem . . . quiet. And different. Not in a bad way. It’s just, you sound both anxious and calm. I know, it doesn’t make any sense.” We can agree on that final part. Whatever happened over the past couple minutes runs deeper than the surface. “Are you still doing okay?”
I’m not sure how to respond since I don’t have a clue what’s happening around me. “I didn’t sleep well last night . . . and I might have had a bit too much coffee this morning.” That’s what it feels like. I suppose it’s not a complete lie. I was restless lying in bed. And based upon my present thoughts, I suspect that will be the case this evening too.
“So, you can ignore the message I left earlier. I called to let you know we’ll be arriving sometime tomorrow afternoon.” I hear my niece pleading for a chance to speak in the background. “And Lizzie would like for you to make some of that famous lavender lemonade for her. Do you believe she still remembers drinking that in her sippy cup as a toddler when you visited the house?” That was such a long time ago. Things were so different. Russell was happily married. I was gainfully employed. The world was spinning on its axis predictably. Without my ever noticing it, subtle and imperceptible shifts have given rise to a new reality.
“I will be sure to have some waiting for her.” With my supply of lemons waning, I’ll save what’s left in the refrigerator for Lizzie.
“Thanks again, Claire Bear. I owe you.”
“It’s no problem. I’m happy to help.” I could use some help too, but I leave that silent plea in a private place.
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A DELUGE OF EMOTIONS overwhelms me. I ease around the corner of the porch, not wanting to disrupt the sanctity of that earlier moment. The vision of my garden, that chickadee, and . . . Jack. I need no external medium to record those thoughts for personal posterity. They’re indelibly etched into my heart, an elemental beat to my soul’s pulse.
I drag the rocking chair around the corner and place it next to my swing on the front porch. What I would give for a visit from Hank and Lydia right now. My focus returns to the conversation with Russell. Things change so much, and in such a short time.
The herbs in my repurposed flower boxes continue to stretch skyward. They peek over the railing, as if to greet me with encouragement. Anything and everything can grow and bloom when provided with nurturing care.
I look back down, massaging my fingertips. Are my mannerisms born from nervousness? Or a reminiscence of that calming, velvety texture from earlier? The essential oils stay locked inside that lavender—until they’re released through a tender but deliberate touch. Rub too soft and the scent remains hidden. Too hard and you damage the buds. Finding the right pressure isn’t something you can teach or show. It’s intuitive. One needs to experience it to understand the necessary tactile persuasion.
“Excuse me.”
A smoothness exists between my fingers even though there’s nothing there. The words I hear have that same silky consistency. They must come from the same imaginary place where the plant I’m not holding exists. Some parallel universe where dreams aren’t only apparitions. They’re real and tangible things you touch and feel.
Is someone clearing his throat? It rattles my mind free from that surreal image. I look up, and there he is, standing at the base of my steps. He holds a paper bag with both hands. A corner of that phlox-colored sketchbook peeks out of a backpack lying on the ground. It’s a sign of Jack’s hurried attempt to flee the scene. Thoughts somersault in my head.
Why did he leave? Wait, if he
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