weather gods Part 2

Stones speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem to feel
what I think. So, a weather-beaten Gothic pillar understands me well. But I am
a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.
― Heinrich Heine

Of all the benches in the Park, she had to choose mine—this strange and enchanting girl who walked into my life.

She had a choice to oppose me or join my Cloud Appreciation society—and she opted for the latter and so we became friends.

I was curious about her though—she didn’t seem to belong to the nearby offices and I couldn’t imagine her chained to a desk.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m an artist. I have a studio—”

“I know it—in the village—you have a framed stained-glass in the window. Did you design that?”

“I did,” she smiled.

“You are multi-talented.”

“I like to express myself in different media—unfortunately, I’m not good with words.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I am good with.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, “You watch clouds.”

We ended up back at my Rosedale manse.

I lit the fireplace and we sipped Shiraz. It began to rain and we sat for hours, watching the splashing terrace and talking in the drowsy tones people use while staring into flames.

We made love in a mist. The window was open to the night. White curtains billowed and floated on the breeze. The sheets smelled of the sea.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I awoke, it was past midnight and she was gone.

I went to the Park the next day, to my usual bench. The clouds were towering over buildings and trees.

I imagined the Cloud Men from my childhood—the ones who puffed their cheeks and pushed the cloudy floats—arranging and rearranging the puzzle pieces of the geography of the sky.

Their unseen hands were busily at work shaping and reshaping sky castles and mountain ranges and the dark blue bays where the Moon sleeps at night.

I sat admiring, but waiting. She didn’t come—nor the next day—nor the day after that.

I went home and sat in my front room with its huge cathedral ceiling and wished for the skylight I mentioned to her. My mind went back to that day.

“A skylight?” she asked.

“So I can sit here and watch clouds.”

“The park’s the best place for that.”

“Yes, but it seems the ownership of our bench is in dispute.”

“So, you don’t like to share,” she teased.

“Some things are best enjoyed in solitude.” I was thinking aloud.

She got very quiet after that.

Perhaps I offended her. But it didn’t make sense—we made love after that.

Still, I haven’t seen her since that day.

I dropped by her studio the next day. A red painted sign in the window blared, Shop Closed.

I returned the next day and then, each day for weeks after. The studio was always dark. The sign was always there.

One night I came home and found a brown paper package, tied with hemp, addressed to me.

I took it inside and opened it. It was a white crocheted cashmilon wool sculpture, with a note attached:

Dear Derek,

I made you a cumulus cloud by sewing together crocheted squares.
I diagrammed it all, using fractals to reproduce the cloudy topography.
This is to be hung from your high ceiling until you get a skylight.
When you look at the cloud, think of me.

Autumn

I redoubled my efforts to contact her—all in vain. One day, I went by her studio and it was sold.

I contacted the realtor who told me the vendor went to live in Peru.

I still go to the bench in the park. It’s no longer my bench and it’s not our bench—it’s just a bench—a place where I watch clouds.

I wonder what it’s like watching clouds from the mountains of Peru. I wonder if Autumn walks with the Cloud Men—or sleeps with them.

I’m angry and I’m lonely. Some days I miss her—but mostly I hate her. Emptiness fills my heart.

I told her all. I opened my heart to her.

She left without explanation and tormented me with a cloud.

I want to close the door on her but can’t.

She left without explanation and could as easily return.

Today, the clouds above the trees are like an x-ray of an obscure anatomy. I sit on the bench alone.

It’s autumn, and leaves are falling—raining down maple stars.

The cloud nymphs' water jars are empty, but it's raining—showers of crimson stars...

and now I know in winter cold or summer heat, it will always be autumn in my heart.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Photo: https://goo.gl/images/zfHE3O