Jacob Lawrence, Play Street (1942)
October 31, 2002:
Little neighbor girl, three or four, Hispanic, utterly joyful in all things, as though every
moment were an unfettered delight in the mystery and beauty of life. Runs down the sidewalk
waiving to the sky, as a low-flying parasailer glides overhead, skimming the rooftops. You
can see his grin from two blocks away. Banks sharply, turns around, glides back up the street
at telephone-pole height, waiving back. The two of them dance back and forth this way
most of the afternoon.
Summer. Sunshine, seabreeze. At work at your writing desk, glancing through west-facing
French doors at afternoonlight playing on the swells. A pair of male feet in lightweight
hiking boots drifts across the top of the frame, from right to left, leaving you thinking,
with narrowed eyes, "Whew! Caffeine!" It's not until the next passes that you
realize these are parasailers cruising in the updraft from the cliffs before you.
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© 2002-2013 Mark Phillips.
All rights reserved.
This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.