July 29, 2004

Fictional Thursday  ...remember what you paid...

Hannah Cleary wore perfume of rose-honey and planted dogwood blossoms in her sheened hair. It was ’41, just afore the war took our innocence, and we danced till our nerves wore off. She wore out them leather shoes, the shine did fade with the sweat and floor paste. Her hair‘s bob-weave did prance about in the light, liquid as amber. The bands from Nashville, one after another, kept goin’ till the cool dew-hours. My straw hat come off from the dancin’ going on and from lookin' at her smile pert and compact as a sweet little put-together puzzle. She wore toe necklaces of goldenrod, perched there on gentle-feet, little feet-falls of girlishness. She impregnated the silences with quick-drawn breaths and her dimpled gaze swung adoringly from me to her shoes and back, shy as'n if she couldn’t look up for long. When the bluegrass came on, her feet'd divinize and she’d dance like a silly colt and we all’d pretend-gape & then join in. The bluegrass was gas to her fire, and her feet would blur to “Polly, Pretty Polly” or “How Mountain Girls Can Love”. She’d beat that floor, and I reckon such a floor should count itself lucky.

Afterwards we hung the curves of that dark country road, so silent and still, the only sound the crickets and the whistle-tunes of the wind. The mountains loomed like stage props in the distance, melting into benevolent distant guardrails, and it felt as if no matter what we did they’d hold us in, close to their bosomy mountain fastness. The guazy haze of fog enveloped us and made us believe we were immortal.

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