Here I am, only fifty feet above the ground, but on top of the world. The sea salt dances with the air and the smell causes my childhood to come crashing down on the shores of my memory. I gaze off towards the horizon and smile as the ocean hugs a blushing sky. What a beautiful romance. A warm breeze that hums a melody finds my ears and whispers that spring is on the way. And then there is George.
I wonder if George notices that he is standing right next to me; I can feel his body heat. I am wearing my usual outfit – a wife beater with basketball shorts. George is wearing his Sunday best. His yellow checkered shirt is neatly tucked into his brown dress pants. And his tie is a soft blue that seems like it was dipped into the ocean.
George knows he is standing next to someone because he begins to talk:
“I used to come here every day.”
“We would make bonfires right there on the beach”, he points to a spot on the shore beyond the no trespassing sign.
I wonder how long George is going to talk. I watch his wrinkled face while he tells me stories and I notice that his eyes close whenever he smiles. He must be remembering his childhood. George is old, and he said this might be his last visits to the beach – to his childhood.
“Thank you for listening” George smiles, but this time he keeps his eyes open so he can look at my face.
An hour has gone by since we first started talking and I hear George’s footsteps slowly fade as he makes his way down the spiral staircase. I’d like to imagine that his smiles today were the same smiles he wore as a child. And it’s too late now, but I wanted to tell him about my own adventures. The adventure I was on right then and there, but I never opened my mouth. It was George’s turn to talk, and it was my turn to listen.
Thank you George. To heal, to learn, and to love is to listen.
