What form this takes, I do not know.

Words move through vessels and veins, circulating.

Fingers motivate keys to release the pressure inside.

Wanting to say more, knowing I must hold back.

Time. Give it time. Wait. It will unfold.

I am the starting gun, the witness to your bang.
I am the ripple that repeats again and again.

I am the emotion, the motion, the channel for your fear.
I am the reason you resonate, the connection you share.

I am the one who knows the beginning and the end, but
I cannot see from the middle when my work is done.

I am the pot, the frog, and boiling water.
I am the steam, the fire, and the frothing layer.

I am the protagonist, the force behind your unraveling.
I am the reason you came apart, in order to be rewound.

I am the function, the parameter, the broken rule.
I am the law without limit, expansion without form.

I am the Catalyst, the motivator of the reaction and the heat.
I am the cause for change, for lessons repeat.

Though I return to the beginning without you, I will not recant.
When the embers glow, you remain unique.

The combustion is done and I am consumed.
I am love received, shared, and lost again.

This story was originally written for the NPR “Three-Minute Fiction” short story contest.

Downtown was unfamiliar to me as I had only recently acquired my apartment two blocks off Main. The job which brought me here offered a leisurely break to enjoy a walk after a midday meal. I approached one of the two roundabouts which defined the beginning and end of the street just three blocks long.

I stopped at the crosswalk before the roundabout, looked to my left and then forward again. An elderly man sat on a bench in the middle, to his left a bronze statue of a beautiful elderly woman. He was bent forward, his head held in his hands and elbows upon his thighs. As I crossed the two lanes and drew near, I could hear him crying.

Two people to my front had walked by him, looked, but did not stop. I nearly did the same, but could not. It just didn’t feel right. I turned round slowly, the statue of the woman between me and him. I took a deep breath and then reached out to steady myself on the crown of her head. It was warm to the touch despite the cool fall air, the metal so perfectly carved as to give soft texture to her hair. I lowered myself a bit, knees bent, and saw the man’s tears flowing free.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you ok? Is there anything I can do?”

He did not seem to hear me, his head yet held in his hands. I tried again, “Sir. You’re, … you seem so sad. What happened?”

His sobs lessened as he attempted a deep breath. He said nothing but lifted his head from the support of his arms. With his hand he motioned for me to sit upon the bench to his right. Both our gazes fell upon the red brick path at our feet. I waited. A long time passed.

When he found his voice he said, “I have never felt such grief. I have never felt such pain. The loss inside me, I could never live with this again.” He shook his head slowly from side to side.

In that moment my heart sped. I could feel his grief as though it were mine. It was difficult to speak, “May I … may I ask what happened?”

Two cars drove around the circle, one in each direction. A cloud moved to cover the sun. The wind blew lightly and then stalled again. I looked at my watch without lifting my arm, not wanting to press him for time.

He sat upright and then slowly turned his head. Our eyes met, his dark, nearly hollow inside.

Finally he said, “I have taken many risks in my life. I have challenged death more than one time. But the greatest reward I was ever given was experiencing a love that transcends time.”

He grabbed my hand with an agility and strength that surprised me, holding me tight. He breathed more than he said, “If you are ever given opportunity to feel this way,” his eyes penetrating mine, “stop at nothing to love this deep.”

He turned to face the statue of the woman, his left arm holding her in a familiar embrace. The warmth of his hand around mine was lost and when I looked up carved metal now defined his face. I pushed away from him and nearly fell to the ground. Tears were replaced with a smile on the left of two statues, side by side, on the bench in the middle of the roundabout at the end of town.

© Kai Staats 2011

They were called by candle, they were called by flame.
They came together, they came to pray.
A flicker of light, a glimmer of hope.
They moved to be touched by the hands of their friends.

But someone else was here too, even if for just a short while.
Called by candle, called by flame,
the God of the moment, this night she came.

Inspired by the music, she danced in the light.
Moved by the passion, she became the flame.
She sat atop candle tips, and looked into their eyes.
Some moved her to laughter, while others, she felt their pain.
The God of the moment, was pleased she came.

Hang on to that moment, hang on to the light.
Remember the dancing flames that illuminated this night.
That was the God of the moment, just passing through.
That was the God of the moment, looking at you.

I am able to see again, to observe and engage the world around me in a way that compels me to write. It’s been a while, more than six months, maybe a year since I felt this way. It’s good to be in this place again.

One breath and the mind begins to clear.

Two breaths and the heart releases fear.

Three breaths and my arms pull you near.

Hand on my chest, the comfort of your breast,
breathe with me, and hold me forever.

There is a sidewalk, near the center of town, which remembers the footsteps of all for whom it provides safe passage. If you have ever trusted your feet to its solid, paved path, then you will have shared more than you know.

The sidewalk knows your weight, your gate, the times you stop to contemplate. It knows if you are burdened by grief, overwhelmed by joy, or if you are playing with your dog and its new toy. It knows if you had a really good, or a very, very bad day.

This sidewalk knows how you carry yourself, if you are feeling silent, talkative, or glum. It may be made of concrete, unable to speak, but this sidewalk is neither dense nor dumb.

It knows if you have a sore hip or a rock in your shoe. It knows if you are in love, or if you lost someone true–in fact, it’s likely this sidewalk knows more about you, than you do.

No one knows all this sidewalk has seen, nor if other sidewalks do share its ability to remember all that has been. But yesterday, believe me, it’s true, this sidewalk shared with me a story which I now share with you.

————————-

A boy and a girl were both very afraid. They had lost something important and did not know where, or how to find it again. They walked next to each other, but did not touch or hold hands. The sidewalk thought, “They are fortunate to have a smooth, safe place to walk, for they are focused inside their hearts and minds, not on what lies ahead.”

They walked slowly, side by side, their feet matching pace and stride. With hands in their pockets and heads bowed, they shared hard things, even though both were afraid for what the other may confide. Each question was followed by an answer, just one at a time. Their trust in the process grew, the tension did subside.

At an intersection of two streets, several blocks from home, the sidewalk was interrupted by a curb and a sign. They stopped, the girl turned to face the boy and asked, “I remember when that changed for us? What made that time with me different for you?”

And the boy responded, “I let go of my fear for what you would or would not be when I realized there is more to love in you now than has ever found me.”

The girl stopped, turned and stared, wanting so much to believe what she just heard. She looked into his eyes, then to his face to confirm. He stared back, breathing deeply, confident in what he had shared. Tears filled her eyes, and then his as well, the salty drops fell from their faces to the concrete below. They held each other and the sidewalk knew something had changed.

Their pace was even slower, their bodies closer than before. Their voices were soft, words spoken less out of fear. They turned often to look at each other, their eyes connected to a deeper truth than words do share. They stopped to cry, to hold each other as often as they did move, for their destination was neither a direction nor a distance, but a path for their hearts to find truth.

When the boy and girl turned, to walk back toward home, they moved hand in hand. The sidewalk would have smiled, if it was able, for it had played an important role, providing safe travel in an insecure land.

Now, this would usually be the end of the story, but the sidewalk knew, their journey has just started, their walking not through. On that same day they called upon the sidewalk again. A little slower, a little further, they shared what was new in contrast to what had been.

As their feet carried them beyond the sidewalk’s reach, their voices grew nearly too low to be heard. The girl turned to thank the boy and said, “You fought for me as no one has before. Thank you.”

Feeling the warmth of her body coming closer to his, he took a deep breath, “So, do you, …” and he paused, smiling, “Did I win?” She laughed and then cried, her forehead falling into his chest. They wrapped arms around each other and then nodding, without words she said “Yes.”

It was not a competition nor a battle to be won, but a safe space into which the girl had come. The boy had let go of all that had been, accepting that he may lose everything in order to give her what little was left of him.

And in that hesitant, last remnant of flow, they found what they had lost, they found what they were looking for. It had been there all along, only hidden from view. The sidewalk was pleased, because the sidewalk always knew.

————————-

Now this is of course a story told by an aggregation of rock, cement, and sand. It knows not of computers nor email nor how modern stories transcend. I am, to be honest, a little concerned that from its point of view, always beneath foot and worn shoe that it may have missed something important, it may have misunderstood a word or two.

But this is what I was told, and now I have told you. Take what you will, for this is the story of what a sidewalk observed, a sidewalk which may know a lot about you.

It has been three long months since I have found the motivation, the courage to write. So many thoughts not recorded, so many stories untold. The adventure of my life has always propelled me forward, and yet, in these several weeks, despite the highs and lows, I have been unable to gather my thoughts into a format which lends itself to this place.

This is the first time I have prepared what is for me a journal entry, something very personal, yet published here for all to see. No, I did not venture to another country. I did not climb a higher rock. I did not wake from a vivid dream. Rather, the unfolding of this journey is inside of me.

I knew this time was coming, the desire to grow strong, for in recent communications I have found that my words were rhyming without intent, my sentences flowing, matching prose to song.

Something was coming alive, in an otherwise dead space, wanting to see the light of day again where only shadows did waste.

It’s time to breathe again.
It’s time to shake free the mud.
It’s time to find solace in the open spaces.
new comfort after the loss of love.

These are the dark times,
the hard times, the hours when
the shadow figures come to stay.

These are the spaces in which
history is mixed with emotion,
confusing the memory of former days.

These are the only words to escape
from the immense gravitational pull,
one lover crushed, the other lost to space.

To see beyond the horizon
requires breaking free of the confine
which gives life chase, for …

These are the dark times,
the hard times, the hours when
we have forgotten love found

in that special, safe place.