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Reflections In The Afternoon Sunlight by Martha Fuller April 11, 2007 I sit on the patio of my new residence (a retirement home) sunning myself in the late October afternoon's lingering light. Eyes closed, I listen to the flag's popping sound that floats on the erotic afternoon breeze, and contemplate the gentle rustling of the cornstalks that are tied as decorations to the pillars, located near the double-entrance doors. I recall (from years ago) the metal clank-clanking of the clasp against the wooden flagpole, which was situated near my son's bedroom window of the old house, where my children (three boys and one girl) played in youth. I marvel at the fact that being raised with certain accompaniments (such as that familiar rattle of the rope's clasp hitting the pole) one is conditioned to such tones, instead of being annoyed, and even grows to enjoy the sounds, which embellish fond memories from glad-some days. There must have been other "interruptions" that this happy, tired Mother would absorb, as she sunned herself in the yard, spring, summer and (yes) even winter, choosing then, an area protected from wind's chill, yet warm with sun's rays. A true nature worshiper was I, throughout a forty-five year span! Eyes closed (then as now) to the bright glare, I would love the slow gong-gong tune of the bell buoy, making boaters aware of the entrance to the harbor's channel. My daughter phoned just recently, to tell me that she awoke one night, hearing a resounding echo, and thought, "Oh, it's just the bell buoy." It took a few moments (in her sleepy, confused state) for Marcy to realize that she hadn't been blessed with that individualized rendition during the last thirty years, since having moved away from the shoreline! I too, sometimes imagine (undoubtedly from loneliness due to separation) that I hear the sharp sound of our anvil striking the trembling metal but (sadly) that antique sentinel was replaced with a more modern light buoy. The original lookout remains a memory in my heart: that beckoning call for all youngsters to come on out - and dive, from off her red, slippery platform! I retain her song, deep within, storing it in my reminiscence carryall, along with so many other lost chords. Seagull-cries echoed each day, as the years (all to quickly) washed by, leaving many changes in their wake. I witnessed the new owners of what had been our home for many years, remove the surrounding age-d trees which, as young saplings, had been planted by this author (then also younger) - and tended with pride throughout elapsing time. We had been rewarded with spring-blossoms' uplifting fragrance, - and summer shade: balms for all God's creatures. The incomparable taste of our autumn King apples, sustained me! Accessible storm shelter for our bird friends proved gratifying to their small, feathered bodies, - and rustling leaf-hymns on restless evenings were a welcome lullaby to tired minds - a prelude to all our dreams. During my final years residing in the homestead, at about four-thirty each afternoon, I faithfully greeted the flight of the swans, along with their whir-whirring metallic resonating chorus, which traveled over and above all other notes: a rare and strange sounding melody indeed! In back yards of the past, as in present neighborhoods, one heard the calling-out of children (returning from school) but never again are they to be the welcome exchanges from my children, except when the little ones send forth their greetings, in my pampering fantasies. I shall have to return to that cluster of houses, to listen again for reminders of other sounds of home, that perhaps still linger. I must collect more sensory memories with which to relax, eyes closed, sunning, during these lingering, blessed days of extended age. About the author: Martha is a senior citizen now residing in Westbrook, CT. In the autumn of 1996, circumstance (happily), nudged her into the field of creative poetry. Having previously worked as a homemaker, holding down various jobs while raising her four children, Martha is now, more than pleased to achieve a slight measure of success, during such a short period of time, in her recently chosen field. Her poetic thoughts had been stored, for so many years, on the back shelf of her mind-cupboard, that there was an initial explosion, upon opening the time capsule. Her files, at present, contain close to two hundred comical, romantic, reverent, reminiscent, and thought-provoking poems. | | | |
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