nonparlo
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora's face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, "nothing here matches your beauty."
Cole looked left, slyly, at Aurora's face, open in wonder at the pictures and paintings in the gallery. Grabbing her hand, he leaned into her, whispering with all the corniness of an Iowa agricultural center, "nothing here matches your beauty"
Life had been hard, before. Not that it wasn't anymore, I mean... but it was different then. It was almost the same everyday, like variations on a theme. Chores and labor and work and chores and labor and work and chores and...
But then we packed up and bundled ourselves into the wagon. They told us it would be easier in the end; more play, less work. More time for ourselves and for eachother, they said. We just had to get into our wagon and ride, arrive, refresh our lives.
Time was the killer.
The hardest days of all were the wagon days. Day in, day out. No variation. Just sit and sit and sit and sit wait and sit and sit and watch and sit and sit and sit. . .
As the wind blew my hair into my face and slapped little shards of sand and gravel against my cheeks and legs, I could think only of the other times I had been here... other times, happy times, with you.
It started here, us, so I guess 'us' must end here too.
writing since 2011 · 5 entries · 4 days shown up
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sitfacechoresworkwagonlaborourselvescoleslylyaurora'sopenwonderpicturespaintingsgallerygrabbing