"There is a place where the sidewalk ends
"And before the street begins,
"And there the grass grows soft and white,
"And there the sun burns crimson bright,
"And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
"To cool in the peppermint wind."
The poems had gone on for quite awhile, starting before he woke out of his restless drift and continuing on to break the silence. It was the only sound in their room, as one read and the other listened, and the cadence was on one side and the heartbeat on the other.
He didn't know what prompted Harold Lee to read poetry, but it was pretty to listen to; a different note, a different rhythm than the often meandering tune that accompanied the hum he would harmonize.
Scotty had not ventured out much, and like all things that lived outside of their own context, he didn't ever imagine he had in the past or would again. It wasn't a rift or a temporal maelstrom that snatched away his past and future, though. It was because he was still learning how to have both of those things, when most of his life had been lived in the unforgiving now.
Sometimes he forgot the lessons and had to try again.
So, he listened.
"Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
"And the dark street winds and bends.
"Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
"We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
"And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
"To the place where the sidewalk ends."
Harold read, holding a PADD in one hand and the Scot in the other arm, who had found himself either in his sleep or at some point stirring to rest his head on Harold's chest. It was the first time in awhile that he'd felt warm. So he had a heartbeat in one ear and poetry in the other. There was nothing pretentious in Harold's voice as he read it; just warmth and some note like he was remembering something fond from long ago.
Scotty liked hearing that tone. It wasn't often that Harold spoke well of his past, and when he did, Scotty always thought of it as kind of a treat. He knew there were bad things back there, and he would have killed -- still would kill -- over them if ever given the chance. But when Harold remembered something good, he loved listening. It was like being given a gift.
He could recognize the tone, if nothing else. That's what Harold sounded like when he read.
So, Scotty listened.
"Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
"And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
"For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
"The place where the sidewalk ends."
He hadn't ventured out much, and could not clearly see a past or a future, because he was still learning how to have both of those things. But the now, at least, was more forgiving.
He fell back to sleep following Harold to where the sidewalk ended.
((Poem by Shel Silverstein.))
"And before the street begins,
"And there the grass grows soft and white,
"And there the sun burns crimson bright,
"And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
"To cool in the peppermint wind."
The poems had gone on for quite awhile, starting before he woke out of his restless drift and continuing on to break the silence. It was the only sound in their room, as one read and the other listened, and the cadence was on one side and the heartbeat on the other.
He didn't know what prompted Harold Lee to read poetry, but it was pretty to listen to; a different note, a different rhythm than the often meandering tune that accompanied the hum he would harmonize.
Scotty had not ventured out much, and like all things that lived outside of their own context, he didn't ever imagine he had in the past or would again. It wasn't a rift or a temporal maelstrom that snatched away his past and future, though. It was because he was still learning how to have both of those things, when most of his life had been lived in the unforgiving now.
Sometimes he forgot the lessons and had to try again.
So, he listened.
"Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
"And the dark street winds and bends.
"Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
"We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
"And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
"To the place where the sidewalk ends."
Harold read, holding a PADD in one hand and the Scot in the other arm, who had found himself either in his sleep or at some point stirring to rest his head on Harold's chest. It was the first time in awhile that he'd felt warm. So he had a heartbeat in one ear and poetry in the other. There was nothing pretentious in Harold's voice as he read it; just warmth and some note like he was remembering something fond from long ago.
Scotty liked hearing that tone. It wasn't often that Harold spoke well of his past, and when he did, Scotty always thought of it as kind of a treat. He knew there were bad things back there, and he would have killed -- still would kill -- over them if ever given the chance. But when Harold remembered something good, he loved listening. It was like being given a gift.
He could recognize the tone, if nothing else. That's what Harold sounded like when he read.
So, Scotty listened.
"Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
"And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
"For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
"The place where the sidewalk ends."
He hadn't ventured out much, and could not clearly see a past or a future, because he was still learning how to have both of those things. But the now, at least, was more forgiving.
He fell back to sleep following Harold to where the sidewalk ended.
((Poem by Shel Silverstein.))