Parmesan Chicken (Revised) Blog #1

A cool desert breeze tousles my hair. The night is comfortable, but the metal picnic bench where I sit feels like a refrigerator coil. It has absorbed the wind’s chill. “Fall is coming,” the yellow leaves whisper as they float from the great oak tree. I breathe in deeply; the air smells of pine trees and laundry detergent, the smell of clean. I hear cars, bicycles, and the laughter of wide-eyed teenagers, as I sit in the dark. I find freedom from loneliness, here, in solitude. Tonight isn’t frightening, it’s private, calm. Bowed branches hang over me like a protective umbrella.

And then the boy, carrying a hot metal pan, walks toward me. The parmesan chicken breast, delicate spices gracing the top, is so effortless for him. Perhaps I skipped cooking classes in heaven. I glance up from my scribbles and glimpse soft brown curls and hazel eyes, such kind eyes. I am proud to call him friend, though I can’t help glancing down at my tiny left hand. As I do, the bold print of the Diet Pepsi can accosts my eyes. But even the cold caffeinated can is heartwarming, for he thought to bring it.

The murmur that is his voice rests upon me like a blanket. He laughs softly, and I find joy in his happiness. He doesn’t know the effect his quiet chuckle has on me. Nor does he know that he’s a cellist in the heartstrings section of my symphony. And yet, I sense so much to learn from the people wandering by, cell phones pressed to their ears. Some whisper and some laugh far too loudly. It’s a world outside my own. The crickets won’t quiet. Nor will the car, crying for attention, with yells, honks and music. And I’m here, stuck between desires.

Again, the wind strokes my neck. If only it were him. I glance up again, discreetly. His face is hidden in shadows, the same leaf outlines that dance across the tree trunk. I cannot see him, but I can sense his patience. There’s parmesan in the air again and it’s as though we’re in our own Italy, better, though, because it’s here. I have the desire to stretch my hand over the ridges in the metal picnic table toward him. Those ridges feel like valleys between us. “Wait!” the crickets cry, “Think about it.” I think, and keep my hand still by my side. Again the wind comforts me, and cools my burning spirit. Night deepens and the lights in the windows begin to click off. The mountains become the sky. I notice my cold feet and wish that we two were wrapped in blankets.

The soft click of the Pepsi can brings me back to now. Glancing down I see lovely, defined grass, leaves strewn artistically upon it. He coughs quietly. I look up, knowing he’s trying to be silent, and see small shivers run down his arms. He tries to hold still but his blue collared t-shirt is not warm enough. His cold ears stick out, my own baby elephant. I look, and wonder: What is home?

The moon, a bride, wears a veil tonight. In her soft light I see the purple playground. It’s missing something…where are the children? We who live here are children ourselves, learning love. At this thought I glance up again at my best friend. Those big beautiful eyes are tired. And yet he stays.

Maybe home is when the bench at the playground is no longer empty.