Mid-morning. You arrived home late last night after two very quick days in Westerville. One of the highlights to you beside seeing immediate family was visiting with Doug and Nancy at Steve and Karen’s home near Sunbury, Ohio. Insert the photo when you download.
You have set the scene with what you have, and now need to fill in with a different perspective, building mutually creative bridges among the Dead. Let this percolate consciously for a wee bit. – Amorella.
Almost twenty-one hundred hours, and you have completed the first draft introduction into scene thirteen. Post it as it is. – Amorella.
13
After entering, Sophia anxiously sat down in the chair nearest the door. “I don’t think I have been you your privacy before?”
“I have been to yours though,” smiled Salamon.
She smiled demurely, “We were ready for a three-way discussion.”
He sat down across from her in the open four cornered room with no windows but the fully open ceiling presently receiving the twilight. Salamon noted, “The bed-talk was about Mother’s original culture, that’s the way I remember it – that she was pre-Greek.”
“What I remember most in the conversation is ‘Where are all the other Dead?”
Salamon replied, “We need to bridge this gap. Mother is the key.”
“What I am afraid of, Salamon, is that our bridge project will not become the symbol I am hoping for.”
“It isn’t a symbol alone, Sophia. “We are into the construction. There may be a real connection, a real bridge to the other Dead even if there is not to the Living.”
Salamon spoke comfortably, “It would make sense if they were on the other side of the river. Perhaps it really does wind onto itself.”
She blurted almost unaware, “Mother knows things.”
“I am sure of it.”
“Why doesn’t she tell us the truth?”
“About us, or about the Dead?”
She sighed in disgust, “We are the Dead, Salamon.”
“I meant the other Dead, Sophia. Don’t twist me about.”
“Panagiotakis also knows. He may control Mother. It would not be unheard of that a shaman had the leader in his net.”
“I cannot imagine that. Mother is his grandchild.”
She struck, “Then why is he not considered our Father? Tell me that Salamon.”
“Relax, Sophia. Let’s lie down and relax. Observe the heavens from the mattress. It is warm and pleasant. We can stare out and say what comes to mind. Create our own constellations. Create a few sips of wine and a mix nuts.”
She glanced up, “I thought when I died I’d be closer to stars yet here they still are.”
“See, a much more satisfying conversation.” He stood, pulled her from the chair. “I’ll get a couple of wine glasses.”
“We can think our own fruit to go with it.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He picked up two small glass tumblers and two metal-like dishes from a common three story shelf setting along the west wall.
Sophia sat on the mattress set on knee high flat stones with a surround of soft grass as a carpet. “Why do you have the grass?”
“I like to feel it with hands and feet while sleeping. I’ll roll over, seemingly to frieze into stone, and wake up with tender blades of grass tickling my extremities. Stone coming to life amongst the grass.”
“This is a wish to climb out of the grave, Salamon, that’s what it sounds like.” As well as looks like, she thought. Quaint or odd, I’m not sure which.
He handed her a glass and dish then sat down on the edge of the mattress with her. Empty goblet to empty goblet, yet when each sipped sheanhe tasted the best of their memory of grape flavors. They sat awhile and said little, eventually, they held hands and fell onto the mattress and observed the twilight turn to starlight with the moon in the west.
“It is strange,” whispered Sophia, when I was young I loved the moon more than the sun. It had mystery. Yet, here we are, no sun but light in day and the moon ever shines in day as it did when we were living.”
“I had not thought that, but you are right, Sophia. I have never seen the moon in day. There is no need for jealousy with the sun here, but she shies away.”
“She still dresses in one of her four quarters. A pretty sight even waning.” Sophia closed her eyes and with a secret smile, drifted into her youth.
Sophia is so much smarter than myself, thought Salamon. Yet our fingers enjoy their play together. The sun still shines within with her touch. I become a puddle of stirring thought.
***
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