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i wrote it myself. hahaha well the stupid indents wont work so i.....yeah. enjoy biggrin
We sit in the dimly lit room, the air surrounding us thickening with discomfort and quiet. Finally, Cheryl leaps up from the couch, strdes across the room, and pauses next to a small, electronic organ. Her fingers brush over the glittering plastic keys as she gives her uncle an inquiring glance. "Uncle Charlie, you play organ?" More Silence. Slowly, Charlie tries to interperet the words she had spoken, but gives up after a few seconds without success. He cups a frail, wrinkled hand behind his ear and replies to noone in particular, "What'd she say?'' I stand motionless and try to go unnoticed during this whole scene, not wanting to openly display my discomfort, so instead of joining any conversation, I look around at the dozens of paintings that Charlie must have done himself. Among which were creaking farmhouses, snowy cityscapes, and most of all, pictures of ships- both docked and at sea. Though I'm not partaking in the scinario, I keep my ears keen to what they're discussing. "She said do you play organ?" Cheryl's father leans across the sofa to empasize his words, though he spoke with what I think is enough clarity and power for Charlie to hear. Charlie heard, apparently, and nods, seeming a bit embarrassed with the subject, though I'm not sure why. He rushes to gather the sheet music from the table and attempts to shove them back into the orange shipping envelope with shaking hands, papers creasing and wrinkling under the forced effort. A feeling of pity and realisation sweeps over me as I watch Charlie trying to put these pieces of music back into the envelope, veins prodding from from bony arms. Now I feel ashamed for pitying this man; he had been my age once and had gone through so much more than I've faced. I should be giving this man more respect than anything. Who am I but an immature fourteen-year-old who only tagged along on this visit to Cheryl's Uncle Charlie for something to do? Realising this, I drop my gaze to my feet, trying to convince myself that I'm facinated with my tattered shoes. "Do you wan thelp with that?" Cheryl's father suggests, but Charlie shakes his head stubbornly, removing the bent papers and straightening them, only to crease them again when he places them them back. I watch with a growing sadness the old man working so hard on such a simple task. I wonder how it feels to lose control of your body, just by living through your life and getting old. We all watch dumbly, hoping he would overcome the problem soon, but, realising how much pressure we're placing on him, quickly glance away. I see that I'm being impolite again and begin looking at my hands, but instead decide to look around at the paintings that scatter across the white walls. The picture I find myself marveling over portrays a tottering sailboat that clashes against thunder-filled skies as it crashes over a rough wave-break. Pallid froth edges the waves as you'd expect, but in thes case only enhances the complexity of the painting. I look over to Cheryl, who appears to be gazing at the same sailboat that amazes me, so I return my own gaze to it, admiring it once more. I abruptly look away from the painting as Charlie tosses the crinkled envelope onto the sofa, a few blank corners peeking out from the opening. I feel a grin playing across the corners of my lips as Charlie gives the packet a little snort with a beaming expression on his lethargic face. "So..." Cheryl's father chimes, trying to crack the new silence that fell over the room. Cheryl continues fingering the organ keys, still shocked that her Uncle had remained strong enough to continue his playing. We all know, even though I'm not a member of the family myself, that Charlies growing old and has to give up painting because of arthritis. "What have you been up to, Charlie?" Cheryl's dad gives conversatoin another chance- I guess he can't stand the quiet either-and sustains an interest in Charlie's new life in retirement. "Nothing really. I just sit around here. It gets a bit dull, actually," he explains in a relativley high, breathless voice. He coughs loudly, removing a violet handkerchief from his pocket, blows his nose, and retuns the purple cloth to his pocket. "I'm sure it does. You know, you're always welcome to visit us. We only live a few doors down." Charlie nods, but obviously hadn't caught the last point Cheryl's father had made. Another hoarse cough. The handkerchief. A sniff. The the silk is hidden again. More silence fills the room and, soon enough, Uncle Charlie begins to hint at us leaving, but maybe that's just my imagination. After about twenty seconds of impulsive twitches and quiet air, Cheryl's father speaks up again, breaking the silence yet again. "Well, we 'ought to be heading back now. We enjoyed the visit." Cheryl's nest to say anything. "Yeah, it's nice seeing you again." She tucks a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear and presents a little smile, her features plainly screaming discomfort. "It was great meeting you," I mumble, stepping away from the wall and approaching Charlie with and offered hand. "You too, dear." He grasps my palm, his papery, loose skin touching my own young flesh. His grip isn't very stong, but then again I never expected it to be solid. We shake hands for a few seconds and then let them fall numbly at our sides. I back away and follow Cheryl out the door and into the frosty night. I sigh in relief and let my eyes wander up into the sky, expecting to see no stars, but actually notice scattering of white lustrous sparkles. I'm surprised to see anything in the sky, considering we're standing on a sidewalk in Fells Point. The night air was brisk with cold air stinging my face. I silently watch my breath escape my lips and rise like untainted smoke through the atmosphere, twisting and reaching up to the black speckled sky until it disapears into the heavens. The only bright star glinted in the corner of my eye, compelling me to gape upon it's beauty. Suddenly, the tune of Peter Pan's "The Second Star to the Right" finds it's way into my memory and I wonder whether Charlie's ever thought about Peter Pan. Maybe he's even dreamt that he was Peter Pan, living in Neverland and never growing up. Never growing up and never growing old.
Rowen Gore the DM fan · Sat Oct 29, 2005 @ 06:20pm · 1 Comments |
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