The First Of My 500 Words A Day Babbles....
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It starts whispery soft, like tinsel on a Christmas tree… Something like the lightest, most secretive of giggles…childlike whispers that dissipate in the breeze... Or at least that is what she’s always thought. It was funny how it how it started…and she barely noticed it. How horribly fragile it was…and how quickly it could be taken away. And generally…it was over before a good portion of the public realized it was gone. That is the how all good things are though. We never really notice them until they disappear. She was different though. She grieved way before things happened and lived in a constant state of mourning after they faded away. I don’t think she knew how to smile. Or even laugh. She was certainly not on a first name basis with happiness…or the upside of nostalgia. I guess that is why Elijah nicknamed her ‘Blue Devil’. She didn’t really look devilish to me at all. A bit lost really. But the name stuck. Nicknames are easier to remember than real names, because of most of the time, our names don’t describe us really. Nicknames never lie. But this isn’t about names. This is about B.D. I never knew her name. I don’t think I ever asked. It was snowing the on the last day I saw her. Big flakes tumbled down from the sky and melted on contact with pavement, skin, and gloves. She was walking in my direction, head bent and eyes staring at the sidewalk. She rarely glanced up…and I found myself wondering why in the world she didn’t run into anything. I knew where she was going. To the library. And I knew what she’d do. She’d grab the only remaining copies of Robert Frost’s and Emily Dickinson’s poetry…and curl up in the corner and read. She’d stay that way...unmoving until the place closed at five. After five…she’d talk a walk again. She’d stop by the coffee shop I worked at and order a cup with milk and extra sugar. That is when it would all start. The music. The music that reminded me of the carousel they used to have at the state fair every single summer. I could see horses dancing in front of my eyes. Big wooden beasts with too much paint…moving up and down to the enchanting sound on faux gold poles. The first time I heard it…I thought the entire world had gone mad. I simply couldn’t understand why the other people in the café were ignoring such loud music. I soon realized however…that no one else could hear it…save her. I was sure she heard it...because she would give me such a wistful look and for a few brief minutes I could see her…seated on one of those horses….hair tangled in the breeze and crying. She was bleeding. Something short of death and dying... It wasn’t a terribly unpleasant vision. Just a sad one. I was certain that I was losing it. That at the very moment…I was cracking up and any second I’d wake up and find myself locked up in a white room at the state mental hospital. But that didn’t happen and I was very much in reality. In fact…I was holding some teenaged loser’s latte and being berated for my lousy service. It is hard to count change and be courteous when one’s mind is dancing with the devil and spinning about on her not-so-merry-go-round.
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