Crimson Horizons

The aureate skies beam galore of their wealthy sangfroid while departing from the day, with bittersweet taste of leaving Talia and her miniature loom in camaraderie of the pies twinkling in the night empyrean. Talia, a name alimentary to the soil, means rain from heaven. The eighteen year old lass, being mirror to the pearly appellation sits drenched in patience and prudence, awaiting the sombre expressions of the welkin to unfold.

Swiftly a beige-shaggy fur nudges her arm and evaporates the moistened thoughts. In a mild uprising she says, “Coco, today Ms Miranda taught us the importance of equanimity, while entwining the silk threads in the austere fabric. She said that the manoeuvre is harmonious to spinning the blossoms in and out from our garden of hiatus. I can foresee her glaring at your smooth hair on the Buddha and retreating from her composure in the same unique and bizarre fashion she engendered it.”

Coco rushed like fury towards the small and low-ceiling kitchen. Talia followed him and gasped in sour sight of the yellow spatter of overcooked meal on the vanilla wall- like the simmering pause of twilight, the anticipation of warmth in a humble abode, in a small town, outlandish to the hubbub of extravagance, boiling gently.

Talia grabs a mop, an old nylon shirt, and lets out her shriek of crippling calm thoughts. “The morning was a drop of purple berry winnowing the summer air with magic royalty in the sun. The sun was awaiting its substitute to caress the perspiring heads, who wanderlust through their crafts waiting for the eventide to go home, place where the marathon pauses, where the breath eases on the rhythm of jazz and is filled with fragrance of apple tarts, unlike the diamond dust crashing on the window of handicraft camp. The unruffled tones promise love and gratification, and here I am midst a clear evening’s  emulsion with forlorn time. There are no apple tarts at home.”

Coco woofs and retreats from the kitchen. He sits in the balcony, stargazing beside the lilies-diffusing elixir, lavender-upright in grace and several others performing their own magic. Talia enters the balcony with a sprinkler, the silk complementing her sleek, fatigued frame.

She asks Coco, “Do you think these flowers also converse about their repetitive routines to each other?”

By now, Coco has placed his puppy-dog eyed face on his front paws and entered the deep talk dream world.

“I wonder if lavender ever laments about its perpetual therapy sessions, fragrant, soothing and refreshing as a cup of lemonade. Perhaps, it is more sensitive to the solitude you, me and others savour while visualising the horizon, where seclusion is sheltered under fables. Cactus beam protective energy, yet no one looks at them in admiration, like the roses nobody professes their love and fondness to them.”

Do they feel lonely in the desert where grains of sand caress their spines with every air current or the city where myriad of eyes don’t pause to admire their bravery?

A ukulele plays out of the blue, a mellifluous tune of a Spanish song. Apparently, Talia’s jovial-retired neighbour is singing again to welcome home his wife after one of the longest summer days. It’s a tradition that her neighbours have been celebrating in their routine from as many years the full moon has been seen. It’s their vanilla rhyme for routine makeup of ordinary events as the awaited moments dally. These are the people who substitute fellowship in vibrations of anticipation, since they yarn the purest form of merry time.

Mrs and Mr Jones are the brittle stars which glow at night in the sea, when the night unfolds its hue of eloquent pause and silence of the ocean, the town, despite the soot and flame, renews itself into a safe haven for breathing gravity smoothly into the worthwhile.

An admirable standstill.

Recently, Talia had been taking notes of the most curiously repetitive tasks. Cleaning the dishes appeared like osmosis of solitude through timely comfort of holding onto the cups, steel or porcelain. The wringing out of clothes to feel the blazing sun on her wet through body, the sunlit pleasure of stretching time into dimensions of prolonged delay. The scent brought back memories of bygone folks, seizing the flight of former time, when muscles wiggled on Talia’s face in vague shadows of happiness.

The light swept in through the windows when someone unfolded the curtains.

The sizzling caffeine diffused across the full house.

Movies and popcorn were the cherry adorning musical Saturday nights.  

…

The next morning Talia woke up to the chirruping birds and draped curtains. She pulled herself out of the bed to beat the coffee beans and played La Vie En Rose. It was a beautiful Saturday morning. Since the past six months Saturdays have been her fondest.

Saturday was letter day.

She rushed towards the mailbox. Coco followed her in vehemence. Her walnut eyes descried the crispiest envelope among the infrequent wrappings which read-

“From Natasha Wilson

   To Talia Wilson”

The lassie beamed and jumped on the blue couch in anticipation to read the message she has been waiting for twenty three weeks, the words which will invigorate her spirit and fill her summer abode with warmth and firefly glow.

Talia opened the envelope and it read-

My dearest daughter

I hope you’re peachy like the summer days here in Florida, eating your veggies on time and being gleeful like the morning dew. I’m sorry for not sending a letter last Saturday. I went to Mexico with your stepfather and Jake. We loved the serenity of the beaches there. It was paradisiacal. We wished to take you with us but considering your engagements with university applications, it seemed like a bother. I sincerely hoped to visit you, but Jake has his exams next week. My sweet daughter, I hope you will forgive your mother who loves you the most.

Take care

Mommy

The whirlwind of happiness which took shape inside Talia suddenly collapsed leaving a void of blackness.

She spoke in a hushed voice, “Mom, I shall wait.”

Talia kept sitting on the couch when suddenly the doorbell rung.

She opened the door like the memories in her heart, swiftly sweeping in and breaking it into a million pieces. It was Mrs Jones with Apple Tarts.

She spoke in her affable and lively voice, “My dear Talia, I have got them freshly out of the oven for you sweetie. Congratulations! You are a university student now.”

Talia was in awe of Mrs Jones benevolence. She embraced the stout and warm lady with her slender arms and said, “Mrs Jones you are the musical to my weekend, thank you so much.”

Mrs Jones replied, “My dear, I’m glad. I would have stayed longer gossiping with you about the tempting summer affairs but you see the old man is taking me out for a date. Take care of yourself and enjoy the tarts.”

Talia said, “I hope you have the perfect date.”

She shut the door and turned on the television for watching a movie while she shoved her mother’s envelope on the acceptance letters.

As Talia pushed the first morsel of apple tart inside her mouth, it melted like butter, smooth and beatific, the scent crimsoned her cheeks, the habitat felt fragrant and saccharine.

Talia hugged Coco and felt the gentle warmth of her family.