Friday Flash: Placidly
The firefly skimmed across the placid waters. Ripples. Not circular ones, but one long slim ripple cut across. The old man draws a deep breath and declares for the world to hear, I am old. I am old. He said it with such a conviction that she looked up from her book and wondered what the old man meant.
She wondered a long while. The lines on his face deepened as he frowned at what he was reading. An ache pushed blossomed, and then intensified with each pulsating heartbeat. He hummed. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.
It is hardly christmas, and it will never be white in this side of the world. Green maybe. Try singing green green grass of home, that would be more like it. And then she stopped and thought about the white christmases he must have had, or hoped for. Whether it be something he was missing, or whether it be something of which he was just dreaming.
A distant hope of something different that the imagination had preserved. So that dreaming of it is sweet.
Just like the ones I used to know. This old man. Was old. He had dreams, and had seen. And it is a good thing that he is dreaming, still. She held on to that hope that the old still dream.
And at the flicker of the firefly’s wing, a sweet sound of a buzz and a blink of her warm brown eyes he changed his song, It is good to touch, the green green grass of home. And he sang as he fell into that deep sleep we call…
And she hoped that in that sleep he lives those dreams he held so deep as she turned her eyes back to the placid place and sang her own song.
Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me, small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to meet me. Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow. Bloom and grow forever.
Bless my homeland forever.