I miss singing in the middle of nowhere. I miss the scent of pine trees in winter. I miss the frozen snow on my hair. I miss walking, walking and walking into the clouds. I miss watching the sun goes down. I miss watching the sun goes down and thinking it will never be up again. I miss the blue with amber above orange and the white balloon in the middle. I miss crying for two hours while packing up. I miss hugging and kissing people I don’t really miss. I miss the hug that that lifted me up and squeezed me till I couldn’t breathe. I miss the dodging farewell gaze when we knew we would never meet again. I miss floating in the middle of the Milky Way.
It is between stars and sunrise. How are the ducks 7,666 miles away, I wonder. The lake must be frozen. Where do they hide, do they move around and come back to the same spot every morning before sunrise? I thought about that in the morning during winter when I was three. It is 3:01 in the morning. Where am I? Why am I in a bar? I’m not alone though. Where are my friends? The bathroom, yes, they have been in and out the entire night. It’s boring.
I walk down 4 floors to the ground, through the crowd, outside the bar. Some wander, some linger, some freeze. I sit at the corner of the bar not intending to go far.
Deep breath. It must be boring too for the ducks to spend the night out. I remember, I remember them, they have green heads with yellow beaks, black bust and white bums, all fat for no reason. They are absolutely feathery, Grrrrrrrross! I detest anything with feathers, chickens, birds, peacocks, white swans, black swans, even angels look gross.
A man is sitting on the street corner beside a trolley of trash. A guy comes over and sits next to me. He starts to talk. I don’t understand a word. I don’t want to be friend with him. I say I don’t get a word, sorry. He smiles and sits still. I look across at the posters on the wall of the bar. Deep sigh. The guy offers his hand and I look to the trash trolley man, frowning. He is explaining to the guy. I don’t understand a word. It is 3:11. Goodbye guy. I head back to the bar. Walk up from pop music to heavy metal. My friends are back again.
We dance and dance and dance. The music is getting more and more lousy. They hide in the bathroom again.
I head one floor down. It’s empty with only a couple sets of tables and stools. I stand at the whirling staircase looking down to the ground floor. I need to sit. I sit at the cave window looking down.
Deep breath. Some wander, some linger, some freeze, some laugh, some sit. A boy with flower wreaths around his hand and one on his head comes to one of the guys showing him his white and yellow wreath. The boy puts the wreath on a girl’s head. The guy hanging on her stumbled on couple of beer bottles, he gets his balance by gripping on the girl who’s leaning on the wall. The guy put the wreath back on the boy’s head, pats his shoulders, lights a cigarette for the boy on his request.
The trash trolley man is clinging, loading, about to get going.
“Ey!” a man’s face popped up on my left shouting at downstairs with his phone by his ears. They keep shouting at each other. I look for the flowers, gone. Deep sigh.
“Are you ok?” he smiles, looking concerned.
Have the ducks woken up already?
“Yea, I’m good.”
And it’s me with the silent table and chairs again.
Neon lights kill the stars and steal the show, the sun waits behind the curtain. At least the ducks own the stars, floating under the Milky Way. Everything is sleeping under the white fluffy icing snow, even the reflection on lake. The ducks are dreaming, pine trees are guarding, birds are cuddling, squirrels are snoring, spider webs are showing sprinkled with snow, shadows are hiding from the moon, marble statues are whispering, footprints are disappearing, the lake is frozen in the embrace of the North Castle. The Castle listens to the s i l e n c e.
Rosa, the cat, is purring next to a fireplace, the snow is melting, trees are growing, squirrels are yawning, birds are stretching, clouds are peeking, the lake is shimmering, the ducks are quarreling, snows are diamonds again, and when chimneys are puffing, I will be squeezing Rosa in my arms.
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