Pulse Blogger A rose by the river

My eyes were wide; my heart was wild. Blue. Green. Yellow. Red. White. I wondered where she got her hues.

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A rose by the river play

A rose by the river

(megvalpapa)
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The last time I was getting ready to cross the river, I stumbled on a Rose. My eyes were wide; my heart was wild. Blue. Green. Yellow. Red. White. I wondered where she got her hues.

I halted the fleeting moment to have a stint with my new found madness of youth. Couldn’t tell her my life was the breath of a strand of hair. Couldn’t kill death but I killed every fear of it. That was one true time when I was lost in the mystery of a minute. I found an age in the pit of a moment, in the magic of a touch, in the wonder of a smile.

I suddenly had an impulse to remember something. ‘What do you want to remember?’ she asked, her voice swinging from drunkenness to urgency. ‘Some--thing,’ I stammered. How she knew I wanted to remember something discomfited me.

The skies were dark and had patches of paleness. The earths were shifting and chorking away in large brown shoes. It was as though I was a piece of toast bread sandwiched between two hungry rows of teeth. She gave a smile and inched up on me, eagerly.

‘You’d never remember.’ ‘Why? Does just being not matter than remembering?’ I asked. ‘How can you be if you can’t remember? replied she, scoffingly. I took a moment off. The answer never came.

 ‘I am the memory you lost.’ I couldn’t wait to have myself back so I inched up too.

‘What is the name of the earth?’ ‘A rolling egg,’ I replied. ‘What’s in the egg?’ ‘Yellow, white, water or the foetus of the universe.’ ‘What is in the universe? Her breath reeked of alcohol. ‘Eight travellers.’ ‘And what are they doing?’

‘Dancing.’ ‘To what rhythm?’ That of the wandering stars.’ ‘To what rhythm does the water lily dance? ‘Waves.’ She gave a knowing nod. ‘Who are the stars?’ ‘Sons and daughters of men.’ ‘And the waves?’ ‘Their fate.’ ‘And what is their common fate?’ Silence. ‘And what is their common fate? She repeated. Silence. She stopped asking me questions. It was as though she too suddenly wanted to remember something.

Her life too was a risen tide, something I wished to still for all ages. We stole a kiss. Then another. Then another. Fire engulfed our core. Just when I parted her legs to enter her soul through the gates of her paradise, blood filled her eyes. ‘Save me from yesterday,’ she whispered. ‘I am already a history,’ I quipped. Then I began to fall, her soul was my grave. A canoe man came to paddle her across the river. Then, my breath ended.

 

Omidire, Idowu Joshua is a creative writer whose writings come with deep passion.

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