A peak into my writing journal….free write is a mainstay of my journey.
I watched him, watched him closely. My eyes were drawn to his hands. I drew pleasure from the subtle movements of his hands to steer the car along the country lane, shift the gears matching the terrain. Snow had fallen over night and it was treacherous. We sat in silence, when I wanted to talk. I wanted to ask him about his childhood growing up in these mountains. We were both raised in similar circumstances. Yet, my roads were draped with lush canopies of green and frequent days of blue skies and hot, humid sunshine. When I think about my childhood, it is the smells that rise to the top before the fragments of images. Fresh cut grass and the smell of my Grandfather’s garden. Ripe tomatoes and corn. The smell of dirt, sweaty leather and baseballs. And the images filter through, like a bold shaft of summer sun, breaking through the trees.
I can hear the voices mingling with buz of insects. The tangy smell of bodies cut with the sharp tingle of an oncoming storm. Winter was a crisp steel smell, the chill cutting into the skin like a thousand needles. Light reflected off the snow, tinting your eyes geen. Laughing, as your eyes would try to adjust as if you swirled around and around until you were dizzy.
What was his seasons like? What did he notice first? I pressed the electronic window button, letting it down a bit to cut the warmth of the interior. Sweet earthy smells drifted in. What was it like to walk these moors as a child? Did he loose the love for such places over time? Did he find this place now a hollow void? How? I could not understand or see if he did. I wondered if he noticed the subtle differences with each passing. How the clouds morphed and changed with the passing wind? How the sunlight was pale and sharp at the same time. The stark contrast between the dark earth and snow.
Just warming up for some writing….no editing here…just write…just write…