Jackson the Amish

     

     As part of our trip, we stopped by an Amish farm. It was huge, we drove for a good 20 minutes down this long dirt road with fields on either side. There was something odd about the whole thing, but we just couldn’t tell. The radio was off, and the windows were open, letting in the sunlight, and the distant smell off animal manure.

Some fields were green with grass as they rolled up and down, and animals grazed. They took their time, as if they had all the time in the world. Most looked like statues with their heads down. Only when one or two would life up their head, or move slightly to the left to get a better tuft of grass, did you know they were alive.

            Other fields had long furrows that rose up the side, and disappeared down the next bend in the earth. I never realized how much the earth bent and swayed. Like a long ribbon connected to the hands of a wind dancer. There were other houses, and big barns with other little buildings scattered around them. I wondered what the other buildings were for. Some places had a lot of them, others just a few.

            “Telephone poles.” Mom said suddenly. It broke the silence that had descended upon us since we turned down this road with the sign advertising “Amish Acres.”

            “There are no telephone poles!” She said, discovering what was off, “No air conditioning units beside houses, not satellite dishes, nothing. Her voice broke the trance and one by one we all affirmed and said a few words, grateful to have that strong silence broken. Soon enough though, our words ran out and that silence descended upon us yet again. Like a magic spell created by such a foreign place. A place of sunshine, of dirt roads, and long green fields, and bird song, foreign to our ears.

            We pulled up the long driveway and into the dirt parking lot. We walked up to the main house, assuming that is where the tour starts. But we were greeted by a woodcut sign on the front door that said. “Private, please proceed to barn.”

We looked at each other, and the multitude of buildings placed behind and around the house. Which one exactly was the barn? Dad took the first step off the porch toward one of the buildings, we followed. Mom in back, making sure none of us wandered off.

There were more people than we expecting. There were people dressed up in plain dresses, pants and shirts with no color. Some were talking to groups small and large. Some were moving from here to there with a bucket of something, hauling pails of water, pulling a goat, and one was driving a team of horses out into the fields.

Some seemed too young, children growing into teens, with thin bony elbows, and tiny waistlines they traveled from here to there each on their own way. Others seemed older, 20’s or 30’s, men with facial hair, and broader, muscular shoulders beneath their suspenders and women with curves beneath the no nonsense straight lines of their dress with their practical shoes.

The older ones, the ones with white beards, and clear heads were the ones leading groups from one place to another talking and pointing, while tourists in designer jeans, and cameras in hand nodded and shuffled around looking for the perfect shot.

One woman in designer sunglasses walked away from her group and asked a young man driving a cow to stay right there, rising the camera before her, squinting one eye and one side of her mouth cocking up while she positioned the camera. The young man pulled the cow to a stop, and when the cow tossed its head, it sent the mans feet skidding back a few feet.

 He waited the long twenty seconds it took for the lady to figure out and position her camera. Doing his best to keep control of the cow. When she finally got the shot, she lowered her camera and with the kind of east coast accent that grates the nerves she said overly loud “Thank you” as if he didn’t speak English. He simply nodded and continued on his way guiding the cow along. I was impressed he didn’t snap at the woman to take the picture faster, given how ornery the cow was.

Dad caught up with the back end of a group entering a long wooden building with the roof only angling up, not coming back down like a house roof. I wondered if the building was half built, but when we walked in and down the hallway. The age of the stalls and the level of dirt inside showed that the building had been there for quite some time.

We were so far at the back of the group, that we couldn’t hear what the guide was saying in the front, above the noise of the livestock and the people. We continued down looking into each stall. Cow, cow, cow, empty, person in it cleaning out stall. Some people took pictures of the person. The person kept cleaning as if the flashes from the cameras were something completely ordinary when you’re lifting shovels full of cow manure into a wheelbarrow.

Down near the middle the stalls stopped and there was an open concrete slab with hooks on the wall and wood slats coming out parallel. There was one cow hooked up to the wall, and a girl beside the cow, head down, hands forward underneath the cow.

Mom leaned down to us and in a quiet, knowledgeable voice said, “She’s a milkmaid.” We nodded looking on as if we were seeing a mannequin of an ancient country peasant, or a Neanderthal, or something else we didn’t really know. Then as one, we continued walking when the rest of the group pushed forward.

We walked though a wood door with a window on the top half, into a brightly lit room, with shelves, and clean wood hewn floors. There were electric lights overhead, but we didn’t notice. We were taken back by the transformation from a 17^th century milking area, to a modern gift shop.

There were all different kinds of items on the shelves. From pottery bowls and pitchers, jars of food, and jam, piles of cloth, t-shirts, hand made soap, freezers of cheese and cream, books. There was even a metal rooster weather vane hanging from the ceiling in the corner, twisting slowly in the slight breeze.

Us kids split up, wandering around, marveling at the different items on the shelves. Mom made a beeline for the jars of jam. Dad went to go find someone to give him directions.

 I wandered up to the counter, looking through the clear glass into the big jars of stick candy. Sticks of alternating color yellow to red to blue, spinning round and round. There was a short line of people with random items piled in their arms waiting to check out.

The young man who was pushing the cow earlier walked in, quickly, as if he knew where he was going, doing it a million times before. He sidestepped past slow moving tourists as if he was dancing, or they weren’t there.

He nodded to the cashier who said a few words to him. Then the young man turned toward the door, stopped and stepped back toward some taffy and other candy. He took two sticks of licorice colored green and blue. He looked back at the cashier who just nodded and smiled.

“He’s got a sweet tooth.” A mom said plainly to her little girls as the man made his way toward the door. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought a saw a passing look of annoyance on his face. He walked quickly back out the door, not saying a word to anyone.

I walked out behind him some distance, as the cashier directed my father where to go to start the guided tour.

He walked quickly toward the back door of the house. The one with “Private” on the front door. As he walked in, I heard him say. “I just can’t stand it, mother.” Then the door slammed shut, but I still heard through the open window the conversation.

“Why do they have to be here?”

“It was a family decision to open up the farm to tourists.”

“They do nothing but get in the way, gawk at you, and make dumb comments as if you can’t understand them. I’m sick of it. I just can’t stand them anymore”

“Jackson, you could never stand them. This is to teach you patience. And those gawkers are the reason that we had enough feed last winter to keep the livestock fed.”

At that point a matronly woman wearing an apron walked to the window and closed it. Not before looking at me straight in the eye. I felt my face flush red instantly.

 I was caught.

 I didn’t mean to listen in, I really didn’t, it just happened. I looked down instantly at the blue hydrangeas bordering the house, scarping my toe in the sun baked dirt.

Their voices were muffled and I could no longer understand what they were saying, although I heard the female matronly voice, and the younger masculine voice going back and forth.

Shortly after, my father found me and waved me over to the far left building, the big red barn, where the tour supposedly started. As we approached the barn we noticed more quaint wood burned signs saying “Main Barn” and below that “Tour Starts Here”.

Mom paid the girl sitting at a lock box behind a small wooden desk. Then we met a kindly old gentleman with a crocked back and a black hat introduce himself as Jebadiah. He gave us a few words of introduction, and started the tour.

While we were walking from the big barn, to the creamery. I saw Jackson in the upper window of the private house. His head was down, as if he was looking intently at something in his hands. Then he placed whatever it was softly and lovingly on the windowsill.

As he turned a wind must have blown up, and the piece of paper he set down, flew up and out the window, out into the dusty yard. I saw his eyes go wide, watching it floating, then I saw him rush from the room. It settled down just inside a small paddock with pigs in it. The pigs were all lying down on the other end of the paddock, and there was a large puddle of mud that almost encompassed the entire pen. The paper landed on the border of the fence line, perched precariously on the ridge of dry dirt over the mud below. I bent down and reached my hand toward the seemingly blank paper. It seemed to hum with a life of its own, my curiosity was so thick.

My fingers encircled the paper, and rising I flipped it over. There were spots of color on it, in no evident order, over a background of gray. Spots of red, and black lines that travel this was and that for no apparent reason. White lines that intersected the black traveling on their own whim.

Before I had much longer to look at it, the young man rushed quickly from the house, but with a composure as to not draw attention to himself. He looked swiftly left to right, not looking at people, but rather in corners, against walls, and in the tall tufts of grass. In that way he didn’t notice my approach.

“Here you go.” I said simply. Not mentioning that I was watching him earlier and saw it fly from his window. He looked at me in the face. He had almost a surprised looked, as if he brushed past so many tourists that he forgot they had individual faces.

“Thank you.” He said slowly and hesitantly, taking the paper once again into his own hands.

“Pollock” I said, as he turned his broad shoulders from me.

“What?” he asked turning back.

“It’s a Jackson Pollock.” I said, pointing toward the paper.

He looked down at the paper, then at me. Thinking.

“Yes it is.” He said.

Blood...a taste, nonfiction

Be nice to me…

Today I gave blood. Now this isn’t the first time I gave blood, but it is the first time I watched.

It’s amazing how much of life, and especially health, is done with the intention of you not being aware and engaged in what’s going on. You don’t watch needles poke you, nurses look at dials on the blood pressure cuff, and doctors give you anesthesia. Most medicines are designed to block the sensation of pain, or nausea, or whatever. Distancing you from that mysterious vessel known as your body.

So this time, I watched. I purposely kept my eyes glued the nurse (who was fantastic, by the way) as she unveiled the little dagger-like needle, which was scooped on the end like the pointed straws that you get with Slushies so the ice chunks don’t clog the straw.

She put it in, It felt like a bee sting, but it was a secondary sensation to the observation of the dark ruby red line as it rushed down the plastic highway down my arm, over my wrist and finally depart to the unknown and mysterious realms under the table, then the ice chest, then who knows where. 

It always felt like such an odd sensation to feel my blood, heated to body temperature, flowing outside my body. Especially over my wrist, where so many other veins flow close to the skin. It was almost as if it was a final farewell between my body and its fellow blood cells.

The nurse put the bag near the foot of the bed, instead of the head. So with a slight lift and turn of my head I could see my blood start filling the slightly frosted sturdy plastic bag.

I felt devious, a child that saw their parents putting out Christmas presents. I would watch, then get bored and look elsewhere, and peek again. The bottom of the bag started to bloat like a potbellied man while the top stayed thin.

While laying there, watching, I got to thinking about the questions you answer in the beginning. Do you have malaria? Do you have AIDS? Cancer? Does anyone in your family have such-and-such disease?

No.

Do you feel well and healthy today?

Yes!

Before that I felt normal, but then I realized how lucky I was that I felt normal. I felt a tingly, light feeling spreading over myself. Like the November sunshine broke though the clouds, and even through the roof of the building and shone right down on me.

I watched that blood flow into the bag, steadily filling. I hoped my blood would hold onto that sunshine forever.

Healthy, lucky me giving just a pint of my luck to someone else out there in the universe a little down on their luck and in need of a connection.

Formerly my blood, now property of the world.

I’ve given blood about 8 times now, maybe more. And if each pint can save up to 3 people, that’s nearly 30 people I’ve connected with that I will never ever know.

I could pass them in the grocery store. I could coach their daughter in youth volleyball. Who knows, they might cut me off driving one day and I’ll curse them out in my car.

All they while we are connected on a plasmatic level. Blood sisters.

The nurse held a bit of cloth between my eyes and the needle as she withdrew it. I still felt the sensation of it being in.

I walked from the donation area to the front for cookies and juice.

I never understood before why the people who run the juice stand are so strict. I’ve been reprimanded for having my legs crossed, not putting my arm on the table, moving too much, getting up too soon, laughing too loud, and others.

I’ve been to Catholic school, and let me tell you, this is way worse.

But this time I could kinda understand the demand for me to gentle with myself. I just gave a pint of me. And on a biological level, there will be some time for your body to adjust to the loss. Red blood cells mourning the loss of their compatriots and later welcoming the new.

In the meantime the blood bank diverts your mind and taste buds with apple juice and sugary cookies. Admittedly, another distraction method, but I will accept this one.

I like free cookies.

Political movement...a sip

I've decided that it is high time in out society that we start a movement. A long overdue push... The "No More Monosyllabic Male Names society".

I see your eyes widening and heads nodding in agreement. For years, nay decades now, men's names have been getting shorter and shorter. Further simplifying an already not overly complicated creature. I mean, come on ladies, a creature that eats when it wants, sleeps when it wants, and takes care of it's own needs first. It's pretty amazing.

However, I propose that in the ongoing shortening of names, we are not only shortening the names, we are shortening the people as well. And it's time to change before it get's any worse. Jr., Pat, and Dan have got to go.

We need you to help get the world back from this slippery slope, this washing away of the bedrock of our very society. It is up to you to put your foot down and make a stand, not on the tiny pebbles of short male names, but the wide and solid granite of Winston and Ishmael.

Join me today!

Let's bring back Rutherford, Bring back Franklin!

Batter His Heart... A sip

(Loosely based on John Donne's "Batter my Heart, Three Personed God")


One-Personed God. Your three headed son is
Fighting again. At their birth, The midwife,
Abraham heard their first cry, this should have
Been a warning of future things to come.

Now they fight over a bit of dry rock
Claimed by one, argued by second and third
Fighting over a bit of broken wall
A pair of sticks, and the marble’s round curve.

Their standard’s are; a star, a cross, a moon
Three flags, one pole. They fight while brothers die
Thinking they are strangers, yet both bleed red
Leave grieving wives who share the same salt tears

And so One-Personed God of mercy great.
Batter the heart of Your three bull-headed son.

My grandmother danced with God... A taste

My grandmother had a hard life. Being a farmer’s wife, raising five children, and staying out of the way of her alcohol-proned husband is not anyone’s dream of a good life. More often than not she would be the one to bear the brunt of the pain in order to give her children a better life. If that meant stepping between her young sons and her drunken husband that is what she’d do. If it meant taking on another job, if it meant explaining to her youngest daughter that everything would be ok, she did what ever it took to give her children the hope of a better life. Being the selfless loving woman she was she would give to everyone else, and neglect herself. In her hard life there were precious few places she could go for support and relaxation. Her own private get away was a dream never to be realized.
Each night she would lay her labor weary body down on the meager little bed sometimes beside her husband, sometimes alone. She would finally allow her muscles to relax, and maybe a tear or two slide silently down her cheek. Some time after midnight she would finally let go of her daily burden and seek the shores of sleep.
That is the time that the house would be quiet. Among the soft breathing of slumbering children, God’s golden footsteps would find its way down the hall, pausing for a moment at each door, ending finally at the last door on the left, where a weary mother found troubled sleep.
God would walk softly into the room, smile upon the resting body housing the beautiful soul. He would ever so gently, reach out and lift her up. Guiding my grandmother’s soul back down the hall as her body continued laying on the bed, in slumber. He held her protectively under his arm as they walked out of the house and into the black night dazzled with thousands of stars singing softly their nighttime songs. They would step together into the middle of the cornfield, which had grown up to her knees, and will hopefully be a strong crop this year, unlike last. In the middle of the cornfield, with dew on her feet and her nightgown flowing softly in the breeze, my Grandmother danced with God. He would take her right hand, and gently guiding her, they danced. The stars sprinkled down their music, and the moon provided mellow vocals.
The warmth of God’s hands would sink into my grandmother’s. Washing away the soreness and the fatigue of the day. Her feet ceased their aching and became young again. The life seeping into her feet and her hands slowly moved up her arms and legs, warming her, giving peace and hope. God looked deeply in her eyes, seeing a hurt and broken soul weary and uncertain of the world’s trials. He looked at her with a love deeper than any human could manage, with a love only a Creator could posses for His beloved. It flowed into her, finding all the hidden hurts of neglect and abuse and self denial. It was a healing balm to her internal wounds, and filled her soul with feelings of love, self worth, and renewal.
She breathed deeply the cool night air, relaxing in the embrace of the Father. She held nothing back, but allowed for Him to touch every pain and fear, caressing them softly and slowly transforming them to peace and love.
After the moon had finished his song, and the stars turned in the sky. God would softly clasp my grandmother’s hands, walk her though the rows of corn back into the house complete with its dirty carpet and the dishes in the sink. They walked together past the bedrooms of their children and back to the last door on the left. There, my grandmother would look down on her peacefully sleeping body. God would pull back the covers, and she would sit, then lay down back into her body. God would loving tuck her in and whisper softly in her ear. She would embrace him with a daughter’s love and close her eyes as He walked softly back down the hallway.

Choices... a sip

Coffee for sale! Coffee for sale!
Beautiful delicious coffee for sale
Come you thirsty, lonely women
Find yourself the right one

Little lady come right up here, take a sip
I’ve a drink to make your heart flutter and flip

Would you like a light Columbian blend?
Don’t let the color fool you, this little cup
Carries a great wave to lift you up
And whisk you away. The world will brighten,
Your eyes will gleam, and thrill is in each drop.
Just pretend you’ll never have to stop
Cutting addiction will be hard indeed
Drop you to your knees, head spinning free.
You can’t expect to feel that great without a fall
When you get another taste of that tan liquid,
You’ll feel divine, then crash again

Or if your heart can’t take that much give
Then maybe you’d prefer this dark Ethiopian blend.
It’s aged and rich and mild. It goes down quite smooth
It warms the chill edges and calms the rough bits
It’ll carry you through kind as can be wished
And linger long after, easing the part.
You need the eye of an artist to appreciate this one
With it’s subtle intricate wiles of tender care

With the Ethiopian mug you feel no rush, nor thrill
With the Columbian you will
With the Columbian you must crash, feel low
The Ethiopian will part gentle and slow

Two great choices, to fulfill part of you
Cannot have both, chose one or two
Hurry there are customers piling behind
You’ve already taken too much time.
I’m a busy one, really I am,
So hurry it up and pick a man.

Puerto Rocan Spark... A Gulp

The sweat was just beginning to soak into his thin button up shirt. The warm Puerto Rican afternoon sun was behind his shoulders keeping a small shadow in front of him that just barely stayed ahead of him as he took the next step forward away from work and towards the Metro and his apartment.
He’d been following the same path for three years. He hardly noticed anymore the 17th century Spanish style building that he left his second floor air conditioned office. It was that buildings and the countless others surrounding it that drew tourists attention and pictures, not to mention the local casino, ritzy hotels, Hard Rock Café, and numerous little souvenir stores, where the store owners bought the trash for five dollars a dozen and sold them for ten dollars each, while the tourists snatched them up as fast as possible marveling at how cheap everything is ‘down here’.
It took a while to get used to the tourists, they walk slow, and have a tendency to stop in the middle of the road, sidewalk, or even doorway to engage in in-depth conversations about how aunt Mabel would love that, or Cousin Frank doesn’t like whiskey as a souvenir, or the minute benefits of one restaurant over the other.
By this time, Richard learned to watch the people and anticipate this erratic “I’m on vacation” behavior. He could sidestep old couples, spring breakers, and even honeymooners with amazing ease and agility. They never seemed to realize that some people actually work here, and with thousands arriving from the cruise ships every day, he was not the one to educate every one of them that at the end of the day, he just wanted to get home, prop up his feet, open a beer, and see how the Chicago Bears did.
For being an Illinois farm boy about five years out of college he never would have imagined living in a suburb of San Juan, Puerto Rico and working for the wealthiest bank on the island as they are about to make a debut in Miami, Tallahassee, and New York this year. His college internship with its parent company and becoming great friends with the regional manager landed him in the nicest just out-of-the-dorms job ever.

This particular day, be it Wednesday, or Tuesday, he did not remember which. It didn’t matter, all he knew was that it wasn’t Friday, so his buddy won’t be calling him trying to drag him off to some local college party, trying to sneak in and get some free beers and get close to a few college girls while they still looked young enough to.
He was warily watching the lady in front of him with an obnoxious red hat and about twenty bags, no doubt filled with items for her grandchildren, when his cell phone went off. He ducked to the first park bench and pulled out his phone. It was his boss telling him about something he needed for tomorrow. As his boss talked, and Richard absently watched the surging humanity around him, suddenly everything seemed to stop.
Richard no longer heard his bosses words, all thoughts of the red hatted grandmother drained away like the bathwater after the plug is pulled. Walking amid the overly tanned, and burned tourists, was a young woman, with a ruffled tan skirt and a red tank top. Her long curly hair waterfalled to her shoulders onto her back. It followed her like a faithful fan following its favorite singer.
In her hand she held a book, Richard was too far away to see the title. He wasn’t paying attention to the title, it was her face that captivated him. The large warm brown eyes, the smooth sun kissed skin, and the dusty rose lips that held themselves in a shy smile. She seemed to float through the crowd, and they, unknowingly, parted before her presence. She was still in a previous moment; it lingered around her like a rich perfume, and made her oblivious to the obnoxious tourists that surround her now.

Richard stared at her as she walked by like one who has seen a vision. In a town where so many people try to make themselves glamorous copied of Jennifer Lopez and Shakira, here walked a girl that put all those attempts to shame. She was a masterpiece marble statue to everyone else’s preschool play dough attempts.
Richard did not hear his boss finish and hang up. He did not hear the nearby couple deciding whether a steak dinner will be too heavy in this heat. He didn’t see anyone, or have a thought until the strange girl disappeared in the crowd and around a corner.
A few minutes later, when the phone’s contact on his ear formed a drop of sweat that fell to his shoulder, did he awake from his trance. He stood, walked through the crowd and to his awaiting tram, still preoccupied with this girl. Only when he fell asleep that night, did his mind finally release its hold of this strange girl that kept him wondering, thinking of her, and hoping to see her again.

The next day he left work at the same time. He did not work well that day, for he hatched a plan soon after he arrived, then impatiently awaited the rest of the day to go by so he could implement it. He left work again and sat down on the same bench, watching the crowd, scanning, and for the first time in a very long time looking at the faces of people as they surged and receded past, much like the ocean currents that swirl around the island.
As he sat, he was confident that his plan would work, and he would see the girl again, but as he sat and more faces than he could count passed, and the sun started in earnest toward the horizon, Richard had to give up, and made his way back to the train and his apartment.
Doubts started creeping into his mind. Would he see her again, is she just another tourist who is probably a million miles away back in her boyfriends arms? What is the use of seeing someone once, only to never see them again. Like seeing the room where the Mona Lisa rests without getting the satisfaction of looking upon that mysterious smile personally. Was she an illusion? He was a little dehydrated yesterday. He went to bed that night just as preoccupied as before.
Friday he went to work the same as usual, he flirted with Stacy the secretary with two elementary age kids, and joked around with Jose that when they are both in New York they were going to catch a Knicks game. As he was walking home, his cell phone rang, it was Charlie, his college party-seeking buddy. Richard answered, knowing the usual routine, uncertain as of yet if he wanted to go party, or just stay in.
He sat down on a bench as the skies started threatening a late afternoon shower. Charlie was busy convincing Richard that it was recruit week, where the frat houses open to freshmen new recruits, and there are always girls that week, when she walked by again. Richard continued to hear Charlie’s words, but they held no meaning.
Everyone else’s movement slowed, and blurred, as she walked by in her flowing skirt, sandals, and tank top. As she passed she absent mindedly played with the charm on her necklace. Some of her hair was held back with a strategically placed pencil, while the rest made its signature dark waterfall like descent to her shoulders and back. Richard did not realize he stopped breathing until she turned the corner.

He’d been with girls before, in High School being the good athlete he was made the goal or envy of just about every girl in school. College he had his share of girls he met at parties. He even dated a girl named Emily for two months after signing up for a Humanities course just so he could sit by her, and later ask her out. Never mind the fact that the Humanities did nothing to help him in his business degree, and he remembered nothing from the class other than the professor liked to speak softly, and she wore too many bracelets.
He’d known all kinds of females and dated many of them. But this one seemed different, like all the women before were only girls to this true woman. Truly mysterious woman. She stepped in and filled his mind so completely, that Richard did not realize he agreed to join Charlie tonight, and the Richard was going to provide the ride, and therefore be the DD. He just signed up for a boring night of watching his buddies get trashed and try to hook up with girls that would never give them a second look if they didn’t have a little alcohol in their systems. ‘
This gave Richard plenty of time to think of his mysterious girl. He already checked every girl here, making sure she wasn’t there by accident. He was trying to figure out if she was a tourist here for a few days, or maybe a local college student, or something.
By the end of the night, his clothes were permeated with smoke, he’d seen one girl and two guys throw up off the edge of the porch, and was exhausted with constant thinking of her. After dropping Charlie off at home, he wondered what was so special about her, before closing his eyes in his own bed and falling asleep.
Monday he was unusually nervous, and if anyone were to ask, Richard would just blow it off like it’s nothing. Fortunately, everyone was too concerned with the recent building problems with the Miami beach location to realize that Richard couldn’t stop tapping his pencil, moving his legs, or standing up a bit too quickly and jerky.
He didn’t even realize the extent of his nervousness, until after work when he made an almost straight bee line for a bench and unconsciously decided that he would stay here until midnight if it meant that she wasn’t just a tourist that left already.
This time he started breathing when she walked by. This time she was wearing jean shorts that showed off her tanned calves, a form fitting t-shirt, and the same captivating face that made Richard wish he could be nothing more than a pair of eyes to watch that face forever. He would have given his whole first years salary to know what it was that made her smile like that.
It became a daily ritual to leave work, sit on a bench and wait. He soon learned that if he had his cell phone out and randomly pretended to talk to someone on the other line, he could people watch as much as he wanted without getting stared back at, not that he really cared to notice anyone except the girl.
She would show up two or three times a week, sometimes on a Tuesday, sometimes on a Friday, or some other day. Each time he would stare as she walked by, and each evening he would beat himself up wondering why he can’t approach this girl, and say something, anything.
After three weeks, he mustered up the courage to walk behind her as she passed. Her hair left a fragrant trail that Richard breathed in like a man who never before took a breath and now was presented the most beautiful rose in the world.
He would do this once a week, the other times he’d just sit and watch her pass. He started noticing the days she had a reading book in her hand, the days she had a sketch pad, and the days her hands were free, swinging with the loose freedom that the Puerto Rican days give.
It was two moths to the day that Richard finally figured out a way to approach the girl. He’d been working on it for quite some time, and had no idea how to make an introduction that wouldn’t frighten her. After all this time, he felt so much for this woman he never said one word to. He desperately did not want that one word to be the wrong one, and mess everything up.
He decided that sooner or later he would have to approach this woman, or waste the rest of his life staring a random tourists waiting for her to randomly pass by. The next day he spent his whole lunch hour scribbling on a piece of paper, erasing something, circling something else, and sometimes just throwing the whole paper away.
He left work twenty minutes early, and waited anxiously by a palm tree by the bench that he usually sat at.

He knew for sure that she would pass that day, and when he saw her approaching, he tried his best not to stare. As she passed by him, he stepped forward and said the words that he had been practicing since he brushed his teeth that morning.
“Excuse me miss, this is from the gentleman who usually sits on that bench. He wanted you to have this.”
He then released his clammy grip on a white flower tipped in red and a card in a white envelope tied closed with a bit of ribbon thanks to the suggestion of the flower shop girl.
Richard couldn’t even look completely in her eyes, once she had the flower, he turned and walked away as fast and as dignified as possible. He didn’t even know how his words sounded; he practiced them so many times before, that they completely lost their meaning.
His retreating back saw a brown hand slip inside the envelope, open the card, and read the words. “My sun does not rise until my eyes see you” -RD.
Richard was breathing hard, like he just finished working out by the time he reached the corner. He wanted desperately to look behind him, but instead forced his feet to the tram and home.
The next few days he changed his usual spot from the bench to a palm tree further down the block, where he could still have a clear view of his old sitting spot. Again he held his cell phone to his ear, carrying on fake conversations should anyone look over at him. It wasn’t until two days after he approached her that she walked past again.
He was afraid that he scared her away. She slowed when she approached the bench he used to sit at. She stopped for a moment, starting at the bench like someone was there. Then she laid something down and walked away. He stared intently at her until she turned to leave, then he dropped and pretended to tie his shoe, praying a divided prayer that she would look over and recognize him, and also desperately praying that she wouldn’t see him.
Soon after the swish of her skirt passed, and the perfume faded, he walked back to the bench. Sitting alone on the bench he saw a coffee mug with the emblem of a elite local university known for its eccentric artists.
The mug was filled with hard candies each wrapped in brightly colored foil. He took the cup and held it like it was an elf gift and might vanish if he took his eyes off of it. That night, while watching the ten o’clock news, he opened the first candy.

About a week later, the mug sat on his desk, when he fished his hand in it to grab another candy, and his finger brushed across something. He stopped typing, and looked at the mug. He dumped the remainder of the candies on his desk. Along with brightly colored foil, there was a small ripped piece of paper.
In curled handwriting, it said Juanita’s Kitchen 7pm. His blood ran cold, there was no day to meet. Did she expect him to be there that first day, did he miss his chance, it was over a week later, is there any hope now? For the first time in months he went straight home that night, changed his clothes as soon as he got in, grabbed his car keys and left again.
Juanita’s Kitchen was located about a mile from the university that marked its stamp on his mug. He parked and sat in a corner table near the back. It was about 6:20.
He soon realized that there was no way he was just going to be able to quietly sit there, The waitress was over four times, continually asking if he wanted something to drink. There was a group of noisy students re-enacting parts of a new movie that recently came out to the entertainment of all. And the radio in the back kitchen was droning salsa music. This was one of the points where Richard started realizing that he was more removed than he thought from college life.
In his hey-day none of that would have bothered him. He sat there caught up in his own worried until about 7:05 when he said he would finish his Pepsi that the waitress kept refilling, pay his bill and split. He was finishing off his drink when the bell rang announcing someone’s entrance.
Richard looked up and saw her. She wore her smile as easily as her white button down shirt and rose colored skirt. As usual she carried a sketch pad in her hands. She chose a table up near the entrance and for a moment was hidden behind the noisy group of students.
She set her tablet down, greeted the waitress like she would a friend, and looked around the restaurant as soon as the waitress walked away. Her eyes caught Richards almost immediately. The small hints of worry vanished in a smile that made her eyes shimmer.
She waved, he reciprocated an awkward one back. He had an uncomfortable feeling, like a middle schooler going to his first dance. His fight or flight instincts kicked in as she approached. He stood when she got close; she stepped near him, and gave him a one-armed embrace and a soft kiss on the cheek, common for people from the island, but still a little new for an Illinois boy.
He held out the chair for her to sit. Conversation flowed easily for her, and Richard often would lose track of the words spoken and simply listen to the rhythm of her voice, the movement of her hands, and the light in her eyes as she spoke.
He learned that she’s from the southern end of the island, from a farm. Her brother is a police officer in New York, and her parents are convinced she is going to be a great artist. Three quarters of the way through the evening, he said something that surprised her. She stopped, then laughed. As soon as he heard it, he decided he wanted to hear that laugh every day.
He did not notice the waitress, the college student’s exit, or anything until, the waitress was standing beside them telling them that the restaurant was closing. They stood; Richard walked her back to campus, then backtracked back to the closed restaurant and his car. He floated that whole night.
Their next date was scheduled for next Wednesday. It was his decision of what to do. It was a risky move, but he got off of work early that day, picked her up, and headed to the baseball diamond. The local season was underway, and he wanted to see what kind of a sports fan she was. Her brother must have taught her well. She followed the game, and they again talked on about everything and nothing.
That Friday she stopped him outside of his office as he was leaving to go home. She said to leave Sunday afternoon open. They took a walk through the historic district and sat on the towers of the old wall that still stood from when San Juan was a Spanish military post 400 years ago. They watched the sun set, and had their first kiss. Life could not get better in Richard’s Puerto Rican paradise.