Silent Treatment
Memory 1.b
He moved quietly and peacefully, as a tired soul awakened from the past.
As he sat listening to the secretary give her sales pitch. He listened to my clicking of the keyboard, the tapping of my pen. His silence seemed as though he were trying to hear what I was thinking, in this long drawn out silence.
The beautiful paintings of Higashiyama breezed through my mind. The tall quiet halls, with paintings glowing from the past. So profound, these paintings felt to be accounts from my own memory. For a long moment in time, there was no boundary between the material world, and the spiritual world.
I pondered, trying to solve the difference between love and hate. “It was a scale of thought thrown into mind every part of the day. The past and the present unfold perfectly in front of our eyes, and there is nothing that we can do to prevent it. All we can do is admire the exquisite pain, and magnificent beauty of it all.”
As I sat in the afterglow of thought, I wondered, “How will I ever be able to make sense out of any of this, even though the answer is as clear as day.”
He sits, staring blankly at the secretary, trying to catch a few words at a time to stay on track, with the conversation. Thoughts of his weekend, softly strolls into his mind, as he forgets the reason for why he wants to learn English in the first place.
He thinks to himself, “The sun was so beautiful yesterday, the mountain skies were cold and crisp, the large island soared at the peaks. The vision of humanity was astounding, as he had watched a set of 8 chairs at the top of the summit become empty, and slowly fill back up again. One by one a small family, a young couple, an old couple would sit on the empty chairs to admire the sight from the mountain top. They gazed overlooking the town in the valley, the distant rolling purple mountaintops stretched into the cloudless sky.”
He thought, “There is a kind of love on this island, a kind of forgiveness. A level of consciousness the West is missing. There is more peace here, more quietness of heart and mind, and more respect for the dead. The living here know mortality is close, and it is a flirtatious relationship between life and death.”
I wonder, “Am I the only person in this world who loves the waiting game too much. We spend most of our lives waiting, the truth and the gift is in the waiting. The skill is to find the sumptuousness in the wait. To fully appreciate the elegance of stillness. To finally get the smallest reward from a long thread of just waiting.”
The secretary breaks the silence, when she coyly turns around to ask me. “Do you know where my pen is?”
About the Creator
Kristen G she/her
35 yr old she/her
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
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