The Boy from School

How can such beauty exist? As he softly presses each key trying, just trying to paint a small picture of. Trouble was, she can no longer hear it anymore. For she had sailed on a ship light years ago. For the notes were kept hidden and were never put into record. It was of a twisted fate that had dictated it to be so, not to meet those longing eyes anymore. As the boy had looked back and all of these wanderings were done within a thought, counting the stars on the ceiling, on the upper deck, as the curtains sway dancing, as if it has empathetic feelings for a friend.

I took a hold of his curiosity, of how such a grand and limitless wonder in such a place like this could ever have lingered.  Many pages before a boy in school was looking forward to the summer. Rushing towards the streams of his unrushed dreams bearing this brand new feeling of awe as he holds for her daffodils with sunlight he hopes, behind his back while wearing his now untucked under-shirt.  The park of his destination was silenced then the church bells strike six. All his chances hanging loose and it was a time for a beginning to blossom.

Has he ever played before? Has he given it a thought to sit down on the other side of the piano bench just once? Has he ever learned that it is not for the heart of a fool that he must play? Has he learned in time that it is for and only for the cradles of her memory to be laid it all down? Stubborn was he I know, but I confess that I too have not seen it for a very long time. That such a reminder should keep me in. I hope the skies would still endure me anyhow, like the days when the caring rain would still let me brush their words. Long time coming, I am yet to write the saddest tales I know.

His fingers numb, they are still not of age. He is no more than four and a half feet tall yet his heart was as immense as the bluest ocean that no bucket can fill. The innocence surreal, only butterflies can peel. As he had found the strength just in time before the sun sets, storytellers they keep on striking the keys for as long as she is around the least. He could never ask for more, she came in her velvet ribbons with buttons yet he has but an ounce of courage left in him. Draining as she approaches, yet he has so much to give.

I found a small wooden box underneath the case cabinet, it was old.  I found stained pictures but happy ones.  I saw the tire swing that was once tied to the sturdy branch and heard the voice of the old ocean. Seemed like a post card you’d get during holidays. I have seen these before from another lifetime I knew, as I try to entwine these days with all the colors in me.

All things must end but surely it was not for that boy. He had lived long enough before turning into the man he is right now. And when time had convinced him to finally let go, the milk has gone bad, left on the side table for the wind to waste.

And one couldn’t help but to ask, has he written enough love letters to make her stay? Has he remembered to take his old man’s advice to take her climbing trees?  Or bought her ice cream and asked her to take a swim to the ocean perhaps? Has he told her about all the adventures of the imaginative Tom sawyer and the biting wits of Huck Finn?  Or was he too young to have done it so? Take us back oh father time for one has so much to do, so much to say.

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