Red Velvet

He said not to worry, as we sat on the back porch steps with light flashing between sparse tree leaves and a darkened sky. He assured me it would be good, something to keep with me as I moved toward a saturated future like the wet clouds above our roof. I laid back on the cool stone, him admitting that he too had done the same. He asked me what I was most worried about. I was afraid to tell him, to say it so bluntly, as if it could be uttered without being sheltered. He didn't seem to mind though; I think the imminent rain was enough of an answer.  

And then he told me to take my time. It made me want to wrap my knuckles around some sort of magic eight ball filled with nothing but the suggestion: to notice, to feel. I wanted to turn back toward the inquiring woman sitting next to me now, curious as to why I was parked in front of a computer and a cupcake on a Wednesday morning instead of a desk and a spiral bound notebook, and tell her I was not simply taking time off. My time now is marked by attachment, to wandering people around me, to the pen in my hand, to my friend's tears; it is not a withdrawal. I will take my time, but I will not grasp it to merely prolong it. I will grip the reins so that I may feel all that this wonderful time effuses into my skin each night, so that I may share my words rather than utter them quietly. 

The rain finally began to pour - we waited to get wet before heading inside. As the porch door opened he said, "Remember, there is only one life, but there are many acts". 

"Goodnight, Dad", I replied.

I closed the door behind me, took a sip of water, and dreamed of a red velvet curtain, decadent and fleeting.