Why I am not writing

2015-07-11 21.21.02An unseen hand dials back the blue, turning up the fuchsia and coral. Greens fade to black, impressionist trees against dusk sky. The bay basks in reflected glory.

Like a besotted teen, I cannot turn away.

At four, 14 and 24, my summer days rushed from sandcastles to skiing to sailing. I little understood my grandfather in the sunset of his life sitting immobile on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. He was as much a part of the bayscape as the afternoon whitecaps or rainbow-hued spinnakers. As afternoons slipped into evenings, he sat as if atop a totem pole, skin bronzing to a burnished red-brown that made my blue-eyed blond brother tell skeptical teachers his grandfather was an Indian.

More than a quarter century has passed, and I sit in his chair on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. It’s a body I’ve come to know well. Sultry or cold, glittering or dark, she bewitches with her quicksilver moods. My book lies unread in my lap.

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3 Responses to Why I am not writing

  1. utahrob says:

    It’s a good thing to look around, find inspiration from nature, fill the well. ” Greens fade to black, impressionist’s trees against dusk sky.” That’s good stuff.

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