Stilted Heart

Women of a certain age are given specific paths, and if you don't follow, you fall off. You become irrelevant.

Unless, by some miracle, you find yourself, while falling through the sky, on that cliff dive. And then that swan song becomes your triumphant melody carrying you through the ages.

Diving, head first, off an uncertain cliff’s edge, I have found myself, mid-flight, still wondering, is this my swan song?

The nervous chatter from the people nearby, distracts me, as I take a deep inhale, and begin to calculate why it was I brought myself here, like this, in the first place.

Each decision, begetting a new series of: question, prod, insinuation, and decision.

Reaching forward, my fingers find the rim, smooth, cool. Slowly I let my mind and eyes drift. Sliding my hand down to the stem, delicately cradling the fragile stilt which holds my heart. Red and swirling. The deep palette, infusing a calmness that settles down to my feet.

Bringing the glass to my lips, my eyes close, as the fragrance of promise courses through my veins, I can taste the earthen berries wet my tongue. Pouring over my taste buds, washing away the bitter, dry, wasteland of insecurity, if even for a moment.

I have never been so daring, to throw myself from a cliff such as this. A cliff so steep and perilous, that flight is the only chance for survival.

Perhaps I should be happy to have had the courage to have seen the cliff, and dared to climb it. To be one who would have risked their own sense of self, just to gain a new perspective of the world. One more vast and beautiful than I could have ever imagined. There is courage there, there is worthiness in that effort alone, and yet it still falls short.

Another deep breathe, another sip, another moment to pause in the serenity that flavor offers. Overwhelming my brain, the rush of colors my tongue describes, holds a faint essence of you, or maybe I just want it to. A cheap substitute I can pour myself full of, pretending I’m satisfied with lies. Satisfied with pretending I don't want this view, this challenge, this strength. This courage and wisdom to know that perfect flight is possible.

I want to know this as intimately as the hillside I’ve traveled to get here. As intimately as my newly born strength and courage to believe that I can have the life I have always wanted.

Lowing the glass, my eyes settle upon the empty chair in front of me. The space between, is filled with rigid policies, that threaten to strip the gentleness the candles provide. Bathing the linen field, upon which bated breath entices young love to show it’s true form. Where stolen glances become awkward fingers, interlaced and enfolding shared secret pleasures.

I’ve wondered what it would be to have you sitting there, filling the seat. Filling that space I’ve held open for so long. To watch you glance, haphazardly at the ornaments used to nourish our stomachs, aching to be what nourishes your heart. Small talk filling the air as our lungs expel the exasperation of the unknown desires held within. Almost glances, shaded by eyelashes hiding dilated pupils, that beg to find some place more private. Unspoken morsels, left to the imagination. An empty glass, an empty seat, a far from empty mind.

Tilting the bottle, the second rush of Merlot that fills my glass caresses my pallet like a late summer’s eve. I can feel you here, too. The perfect “too-worn” sweater, curled next to the fire, drawing me into your every word. Painting the room with delicate phrases that seek to pay homage to the creative forces that be. Gesturing wildly, barely keeping your wine from helping you paint the room.

I can see you there.

Will I see you here?

Will I see you where I start my new beginnings, where I have planted many roots, where I have weathered many seasons, gathering what I have nourished, to consume and to share.