He remembered first that the car was dark, a blue or black. Sometimes his mind fancied a purple, but he was old now, a legitimate big kid so he knew that purple cars were nonsense. More than that, he knew his father couldn’t have been the type of man to buy, let alone drive—a purple car. He remembered next the crunch of the tires of leaving and the warmth of the exhaust as he chased after. He remembered next the lazy light of the afternoon falling down through the oak over the deck and his wonderings as to what was taking Papa so long. He remembered next that he forgot. Two of his toys were warring and he had to oversee them. Time got away from him then, soon Mommy lifted him by his arms for dinner. He couldn’t remember now what they ate, only that the phone rang and Mommy stopped eating. There was the familiar crunch outside and down from his chair and beat Mommy to the door, his bare feet slapping on the cool kitchen floor.

            “Put on your jacket.”
            She helped him get his arms though the holes that seemed to hide behind his back whenever he looked away. She tied his shoes, saying they didn’t have time for him to try tonight. Grandpa waited in the kitchen and they spoke quietly in the front seats while he watched street lights streak by the car window.

            He didn’t know where they were, only that the building was ugly to him—big and square and grey. Thousands of cars were parked everywhere. Grandpa held his hand while Mommy ran ahead. The floors smelled funny and the light was strange. Grandpa told him he couldn’t sit on the floors.
He and Grandpa found Mommy with Papa. She picked him up and sat him on the bed.
             “Hi buddy,” Papa said.
His papa’s eyes were purple and a funny bit of plastic sat over his nose.
             “Papa, why are you wearing that mask?"
             “His papa smiled, “Why, I thought you’d like it.”
          He remembered how strange he considered that, and that his face must’ve turned sour, because Papa laughed then, deep and booming. It shook through the bed and let him know that everything would be alright. 

Mornings were cold. Afternoons smelly. Weekends were clogged with tourists.

            Long days meant a sore back. The worst was the noise. Always, his ears seemed to ring. It set a deep worry in the back of his mind. But then the worker man smiled. He toiled on. Because the worker man held a secret. Back up the dock, up the hills of pretty-pretty townhouses and skipped stop-signs there lie a little life worth living.
            Up the hill, in those trees that shaded the peninsula, sat a cottage. A coffee maker. Two babies. A woman. And when those babies cooed, the worker man’s world was in the Sun. When she filled his coffee mug, he bore the energy needed for another day. And when she smiled at him, or scorned him, or glared in his general direction, he could only laugh at his good fortune.

            So the worker man worked on. Worked away the good years of his life without regret. He ate his meals quietly, thanking whoever out there saw fit to let him live so. And he kissed the woman every morning and annoyed her at night and his babies grew up wrestling with dogs in the yard, and splashing in the cold sea water.

            And the years passed by at a glance, so that the man looked out to the sea every day and grinned. He didn’t mind the factory bell ringing in his ears. Everything has its price.

Told us no. Warmed up to it.

But we were already gone, floating on the updraft.

            That a hand rested upon my neck could lift the world from my shoulders. 
            That a mischievous grin could make a life.
            That a mattress on a floor could cradle the universe. 
            That I might love you.
            That an omelet, that a biscuit, that any breakfast could become pious.

That wet shoes could be forgotten.
            That a city would watch two. 
            That two could float amongst skyscrapers.
            That a door-jam could sneak us in.
            That the trees could sing to us.
            That I might love you.

That I might just, please, keep floating on this updraft awhile,

            Up amongst the clouds
            Out through Space
            Wave to Venus
            And settle never.

There’s a place I call Heaven.

It’s fountains and purple plants and joy that sends your legs pumping wild and your throat trembling. You sing and cry out and no one can tell the difference.  There’s bass strings thumping and bows drawing sound and cool water runs everywhere. It’s night and there are clouds and there are stars. Whales are close friends and close friends aren’t far, and everything bad that ever happened to anybody makes sense. And the poor are there, and the dogs that were never loved are there, and the true in life are sitting by their own fountains with stern backs and bright smiles—knowing smiles. And you can run through alone and your knees never hurt. And the rain rushes down you, making you laugh, and there’s a party over the hill, and lovers on the hill on the way, and a warm southern wind rustles the trees causing you to stop and marvel. Eyes find yours in lost camaraderie. Lost love is found in understanding smile. Those you lost nod to you, assure you the pain of loss is behind, and on you run. On you cry out, the music of the world wailing with. And your dogs run with, and love runs with, and a new pain finds you. It’s the pain of the slave, of the butchered, the burned, of the raped. It washes over you with the rain and it’s all so soul-crushingly beautiful, because they are still beautiful, saved now as they are. And you stop. You weep. You understand the trees. You smile at the water running. It’s only a moment.