MARISOL

MARISOL 

By David Gold

Marisol felt her sol burn as the sol in the sky burned. A finger pointed ahead to the temperate vale from which she could find the shade her heart desired. The girl wafted too and fro, ankle deep in the shamrock colored grass. Buttoned up in a frilly outfit that would make any boy faint, if his heart was weak and he was prone to such a thing. In her hands was a little paper tablet with those plastic rings at the top that let you flip a page in just the right way. “I love these blue lines” she mumbled, analyzing the cream of the paper. For it was a hot summer day and Marisol was out and about, holding a notepad just in case she wanted to write a poem. The unwavering light sent spicy hot sweat down her neck, and the girl’s Adam's apple bobbed as others were doing quite the same thing in the distance. Marisol bashfully walked up to them with a careful, less than provocative greeting. Pulling her hair back, she bent down, and grabbed one of those magical green orbs in her teeth. The girl stood up and with her hand removed it from her mouth. The glossy light reflected off of the white substance of the apple, making it velvety and pure like stars. A good chunk out of the stubborn fruit was missing, its white slab dancing in her belly. And It was probably the best granny she had ever nibbled on, unlike the originals of course. Bidding them adieu, she marched on, as a trail of falling leaves brought her to the shore of a stream. “Now’s a good time to get started” Marisol thought, flipping a fresh page. She chewed on her pencil in anticipation as the foamy waves wafted aside her sandals. Then she saw them. Fuzzy like arts-and-crafts pipe cleaners. yellow ducklings In a line making their way around miniature islands of grass. Marisol breathed in, speedily scribbling on her notepad a poem about ducks and luck and the way they would make her feel like embracing soft yellow bed sheets. Two youngsters sat on her feet as she toiled. Again and again the cursive came to life on her page, only to unfurl into scribbles. She tried everything, but her fountainhead was just not splashing today. The kids looked up at their muse, but finding little of inspiration pressed on with their adventure. “Clumsy me, how am I supposed to write verse now?” she wondered. Marisol put her fist up to her chin and considered her difficulty. She was like The Thinker but cute. If anything could make her heart flutter, it was the park. The girl traced her way down the goofy smile of a wavy stream all the way to the bridge. As she crossed into the safe harbor of the park, she was dwarfed by cottonwood trees on either side. Burdened by white baby clouds, they dropped over her. Frills of green that could be mistaken for leaves.  Marisol got on her tippy toes to touch one, and she lost a button as it plopped into the stream and made a ripple. Ahead, the park fanned out. There were families on towels and children fighting over a beach ball. It was not going to be such a grand day without a single verse … but still … the girl put her hands on her hips and surveyed the lot of them. Poetic thoughts rolled about in her head but nothing super good. Marisol inched up to the first towel she could find. There was a redhead so frazzled by the sun she looked like Raggedy Anne. Marisol’s imposing lolita-like figure cast a long shadow over the whole affair. “Hey tall, dark and handsome, you're getting in the way of my sun” the freckled face groaned. So the poet left behind those long bronze legs. The girl felt scolded, and not just from the sun. Where, if any, could she find some influence? That continued, and she was deep in thought. Materializing around her, the flowers at the edge of the park tantalized her eyes with spots of color. Arms of tall elm trees arced at intervals overhead, swearing allegiance to the sky. Flowers heard the call of the wild and became wildflowers. Reds and pinks. Blushing incoherently. Marisol patted herself on the head with glee and sat down among the stems. She threw open the notepad, letting the cream fly until she found a clear page. The tip of a pencil met a very blue line. The girl coalesced her thoughts and wrote … absolutely nada. “How is this poetry thing so hard!” Marisol whined out loud. It was right there like a thud, like a heartbeat. But gone. Petals torn from their stems, their oils pressed against the page in vain, and then flung headlong, raining down upon her. And unlike Julius Caesar she had not came, saw and conquered. Marisol shot back onto the greenery, her back against the ground, pounding with her arms and feet in a mad but cute sort of way, “I wanna write a poem, but it’s too hot!”. The words parted from her lips, and the soft wind cradled her face. Almond hair sweeter than marzipan bundled all around. Her face was starting to grow into a woman. A squirrel happened by and went on as way, as the big brown acorn wouldn’t fit in his cheek.  “Aha! That’s it. I’ll go get some ice cream”. Marisol needed more ice in her life, and you could never get enough cream. 

With the temperature the way it was, even a bronze god would not disagree. And so the lolita scampered back through the park, through daffodil filled winds, hightailing it out of there. More trees awaited at the entrance, with wobbly branches,  their arboreal exertions pummeling her with brisk, refreshing air. The first of a group of bicycles whizzed past, at an even speed, straight towards the park. Marisol ran into a pole as sweat glistened off a boy’s chest, then righted herself and continued on. And soon she found herself at the square, where everything was dappled stone, and the city crested the hill. Saplings colonized the better part of it, and a big engraved sign sat on an elevated base. Marisol undid a button, as it was a no frills sort of day. And she was about to faint. The girl wiped her brow with a tissue and thought about all the water the trees slurped up when people weren’t looking, “Finally!”. In the distance, the sound of the ice cream man radiated out. He was giving out free cones to everyone. Bounding as fast she could, the poet came to the flashy cart. “I’m sorry doll, the last one just left”. Kids with free ice cream scattered to the four corners of the world. A blond boy passed her by, lopping up mango sorbet, and she envied the dreamscape in their eyes. Her heart fell like ice cream onto a hot pavement on a summer’s day. Marisol started getting cute mad again, but stopped because it was just what she needed. Pop pop pop. The poetry thoughts started coming. The picnic, the flowers, the dizziness of the trees. Turning over a new leaf, she scrawled scholarly cursive onto a page. Enlisting a bit of courage, she ended on a high note. Then it was time. Marisol hailed a taxi more yellow than the duckling and returned to her family apartment. “Danny, are you in your room again?” she hollered, capering up the stairs. The door was closed shut and from within only silence lingered. The girl knocked again just to be sure, and about thirty seconds later, a soft creak invited her in. Danny, her sullen brother stood near the window in the living shadow of a room. Like a proper gentleman he wore a flawless suit. Danny motioned to her to approach. For some reason he preferred the company of walls. But to stay inside all day was something she couldn’t quite understand. It might have been that … he was born with a cold personality, but she didn’t know for sure. A tip of his raven hair swiveled as he turned his body towards her. “What can I help you with sister?” Marisol thought to herself “I’m quite alright”, and continued with her offer, “Danny, I wrote a poem for you to cheer you up. It was a hot day today, so I went to the park. Is that okay?”. And she told him of the merciless heat, and of picnics, and pink flowers, and not getting the last mango ice cream. So that on this particular day, Danny gained a soul.