Water Goes – Sold
Of an Ordinary Life
There are days I really just want to paint with words. Creating a world to enter with words is so different and yet the same as using paint. Is that an oxymoron?
I have always wanted to be a story teller which is why I paint stories. Now I shall write some.
This came to mind when walking Jack in a blowing, rainy stormy Downeaster.
In The Trough
It was Spring break. My family left Italy when school let out driving our VW bus to Greece. I remember running my fingers over the soft pure white marble of the Acropolis thinking whose fingers had gone before mine? We walked the streets looking for the cinnamon my brother needed for his french toast in the mornings which mom cooked over the Colman stove on the little shelf that opened on the van’s doors. We went to Athena’s temple where I used my allowance to by a small marble replica of the goddess that I treasured for years. Where is she now? I do not know.
We went to Crete. Our van went in to the bowels of the boat for the night long trip to the island. Once there we roamed the labyrinth haunted by the Minotaur and walked on the mosaics that lined the floors. There were no camp grounds so we parked the van in fields and all 5 of us slept inside for we did not pitch a tent. There were bushes for peeing.
Then came the journey back to the main land. It was Easter and it was time to head home to Italy as school would soon start for me and my siblings. It was dark at the ferry terminal while we waited to board. My parents started whispering. My dad slipped away returning shortly to nod at my mom. Soon everyone was moving towards the gang plank. There were so many people… Mom and dad herded us 3 keeping us together in the masses of people. Then I saw our van swing up by crane lifted up over the railings and onto the deck. “This way kids”, my dad said and we headed to the VW climbing in. Bed time came we walked to the bathrooms griping our tooth brushes. The aisles were lined with people so we had to step between legs with the rolling of the waves.
Back in the van for the night mom read us a story before we each slipped into our sleeping bags. I was on the front seats. My little sister in a sling above me and my brother on the floor under the bed my parents used. As we said goodnight mom explained, ” Remember children, the seat cushions come off and they float.”.
The night turned stormy. The boat rocked and swayed and pitched. I rolled into the gear shift. Rain beat down hard. But dawn came, the skies cleared, our bus was lifted up into the air and onto the dock. We drove home.
One year later that boat on Easter night over crowded as before was caught again in a storm. Everyone was lost.