fiction

Things

MG TCConsider these things, if you will: The passion of a Robert Motherwell painting, a hundred year old oak Cassone, splintered, cracked, waxed smooth, dark, heavy. The sixty-three year patina of an MG TC roadster, the texture of finely woven fabric, the twists and turns of Susan’s voice when she sings “my song.” Sunlight on a Harry Bertoia sculpture moving subtly in a breeze. Quiet early mornings on the deck with a hot cup of coffee.

The pungent smell of oil paint in an artist’s studio. Freshly sawn wood cut for some project. Walking tentatively on slick rock in the hot sun. The mellow, sensual rumble of an old Ford flathead engine running through straight pipes. Those highs from extraordinary exercise, breathing deeper than you believe you can, and knowing you’ve let out some of the days’ frustrations.

What do I do when these things become unattainable? How do I act? Can I justify my uncontrollable anger, my sleepless nights? What happens when days turn into weeks and I have no time, energy, desire or ability to see, think, feel, smell, touch and hear those things that are so meaningful to me?

Enough is enough. Something must be done and I’m the only one who can do it. I promise to take every second in my life; by any means I can, to be the receiver of these beautiful things. No matter what.

Give me the momentary rush that astounding perfume only you can wear gives me. Let me cajole you to hummingbirdhit those low notes of “The Man I Love.” Do that thing you do to me when your flickering tongue makes the hair on my arms stand up. Paint with me again so that our hands touch and co-mingle red, white, yellow and purple. Allow me the hummingbird landing in my hand again. Let me continue to find the time to live with the great novelists and all the others who speed me away. Let no one void my life with the daily, narrow minded, temporary importance of profit. Let me have and allow me to live with my obsessions. The smell of new books, new cars and new carpet. The incredible hue of nickel-plating in sunshine, scratchy old Ella discs. Tires squealing, blue smoke, loud exhausts. The sound of a well hit baseball. Lying in cool grass. Thundering hooves of thoroughbreds. Old photographs. Bagpipers. Your arms around me.

Wayne Mikosz is an ex-restauranteur, writer, residential designer, collaborative painter with the love of his life and a Certified Appraiser of collectible automobiles, trucks and motorcycles. Visit Convergence Studios. Check out his new book, 10 Stories of Life, Love and Death at www.blurb.com/bookstore.

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