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Waiting Game By David Shapiro del Sole
A burning in my belly like the flames burning continuously just beyond the city’s perimeter.
It is early morning, the sun not yet risen, the sky reflecting the greyness of the streets. I feel alone, and the day tells me that will not change. I check my watch, see that it’s time. I have been here for as long as I can remember. My mom and dad lived here when I was only a dream among the soft folds of their nights; here they grew up, worked and made friends, sent roots into the earth, down through daily routines and the nightly compensations of love. They and all they touched seeped into me, became metabolised and absorbed into the bone and tissue that I am. I too settled, became part of this community, am known, and so to leave is not easy. To be clear, I find this place neither good nor bad; it is both, it is many things. Sackman Street, for instance, is the neighbourhood’s only street to possess a material memory of trees, what once were shade-gifting maples. When I was a child they embraced and rolled me among their low branches under their green canopy where, on days freed from work, the residents strolled and breathed out thanks into the street’s shaded tranquillity. Aunt Faye and Uncle Eddie lived on Sackman Street, and my parents and I lived a block away, around the corner behind a storefront, and we sometimes visited for dinner and sometimes for Sunday breakfast when my dad, a quiet man, would surrender to his audience of close family and for a while became playfully talkative. Next door, on Sackman Street, lived the two young women, sisters, Florence and Ethel. Ethel’s face always seemed to sag despite her best efforts, flaming red hair and bright scarlet lipstick that shouted at you. Florence, on the other hand, had a quiet beauty that was sanctuary for some like myself. I loved Florence, and I knew she loved me though I was only seven.
It feels a day or two ago, but nearly a lifetime’s gone by. The fires still burn at the distant margins of the city and seem to be encroaching further towards the centre. No one knows exactly when or how they started, whether by accident or design, and these days no one wonders anymore. It’s like a game we know well, have played all too often, and so after a while the rules fade like smoke beyond our questioning. The acrid smell of smoke, emanating from the bright tips of flame above the rooftops and rising skyward, has become a symptom of the city’s tiredness, a gloom that inhabits the air. Is it any wonder I have had thoughts of leaving, of putting memories of Florence behind me, as painful as that would be. Distance, it is said, clarifies our passions. In the past, I believe I’ve loved prudently, but now, feel unstable and find I’m frequently waiting for a strong wind to come along and rescue me from my caution. I will be honest with you: at idle moments, I imagine making my way toward the city’s red edge, to the place I fear yet long for. I can see myself bidding farewell to the maples of Sackman Street that no longer leaf, can no longer find their way to green or to the colours of autumn fire. They neither bud nor wither, are motionless like the feel you get in the eye of a storm, and all the while not far off, a great roar approaches. Yes, I must be on my way toward those tongues of rage that have burnt too long in silence. I will stride through the neighbourhood of my childhood, long since vanished, receded beyond the borders of current belief. Even the stone and brick that recorded the history of the place are gone, as is gone the one-bedroom flat with the fold-out bed my parents slept on in the living room behind the curtained-off shopfront, as is the stoop on which, on a Saturday afternoon, Florence sometimes sat as silently as a candle flame.
Look, see how after all these years, I make my way towards the horizon that has become ever more enflamed, crazed with a wild hunger. You wouldn’t think a man of my years would begin such an arduous journey, but I am not alone. There are others on the street searching for fire. We exchange anxious greetings. A woman murmurs as she passes, “The time is at hand.” I nod in solidarity. The morning traffic is heavy, commuters on their way to work in vehicles powered by nothing but desperation. At corners, I wait for the lights to turn green, to signal a safe crossing. But waiting, I grow impatient with the red light staring derisively down at me, am increasingly provoked by its unquestioned authority until I can tolerate it no longer and cross the road in an act of open defiance. All day I walk in violation of the engineered lights. I forego old allegiances, praise virtues I once condemned. I travel through the night, wondering at my own footsteps. The next morning, before dawn, I arrive before an altar of pure fire that demands a sacrifice. In a useless gesture, I clutch what I know. It is game over now. The fire’s core screams like a siren, builds, swallows volumes of air and hungrily consumes the world.
A time comes when the flames die down and burn quietly, one might say innocently…. Candle flame. Florence waiting alone at the entrance of her home. David Shapiro del Sole lives in Tasmania, Australia where he works part-time as a counsellor in private practice.
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