The Art of the Pot Roast
I was a young man then, just a lad, when I saw her late that night in the dim light as I passed by the open kitchen door in the boardinghouse. Mystified, I could go no further. Beams of soft white light shone upward from her cooking pot like search lights, slowly sweeping across her tender face. What must have been herbs and spices fell gently from her fingertips, and into the slow simmer of the pot below. Forever burned into my memory, is the gentile sound of her voice as she whispered, and the vision of her form silhouetted in the light as she lifted her face upward. Tears streamed from her cheeks, down into what was now a deep amber glow from the black cast iron pot.
All my cares fell away as I watched, unaware that I had completely abandoned myself to the warm flow of life from this beautiful girl.
She then became focused, intense in demeanor, and began slowly and deliberately turning herself toward me. Her feet seemed to leave the floor as she approached.
She stopped in front of me not a foot away and gave me her hand. Soft, small, vulnerable, her sweet fragrance filled me. The purity of her presence found me and cleansed my hidden heart. The sting of tears began filling my own eyes, as I felt her other hand softly slip into mine. With my boyish heart pounding out of my chest, I looked up, and dared to gaze fully into her brown eyes. She was waiting for me, just me.
I felt weightless. Bright blinding reflections of life swirled around as we traveled hand in hand; accelerating translated into another world, her world. A timeless land of warmth and wonder that is far beyond words. A place my mind returns to, at every idle moment.
I never saw her again after that night. But, part of me remains there. With her. Even now.
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