La Bella Vita

The sun, it shone brighter. It’s as if it worked in time with the beat of my heart as it began to rush with even the slightest glance from you. The moon was bigger, to light up the night so I could still see your eyes. And the stars were its followers, providing companionship so the moon wasn’t up in the sky alone. The crisp air of the morning was dulled by the warmth of your breath against my neck. And when evenings grew near and the silence set in, I could hear your heartbeat from across the room. The moments of silence came often, but were welcomed. The silence spoke louder as our eyes met, then our hands, then our lips. And the unspoken passion suddenly screamed louder than a word has ever been spoken.  But the loud sound isn’t piercing. My ears want only more. I gave you all. The notes I play are a melody you know. I ignore it. The words I speak are recycled and overused. I say them only to myself. The pain ...

He sits back in his chair and sighs slowly, almost as if to say he’s satisfied with the feeling of the seated position after a long day’s work. He chooses a particular armed chair in the room, one that is bathed in sunshine in the mornings. He stares off to the right, past where I’m seated and looks out the window as a story unfolds of a life that has been only mildly uncovered. His placid expression and the valleys of aged skin reveal a story of their own before a word is even spoken. He is 675235. He is a descendent of Florence Nightingale. He is Athol James Briden, who says his “memory isn’t as bad after all”, as he pulls together pieces of his life on this warm summer morning in March. The softness of his words flows gently around me. The story of his youth began in Mastodon, New Zealand, where he decided he someday wanted to be a nurse. But a job at the local printers took precedence as becoming a male nurse was rare in his time.   “I was work...