In-between Moments

Two Hoops, 2011, by Charlotte Bracegirdle

And we wait, pin cushions below the couch pads, needling intermittent stings as time passes.  Is it central Tennessee, San Francisco, Seattle, Florida, or New York City that is just beyond the bend on the calender.  To not know is difficult at times, yet within an exhale of breath it in turn makes for a reminder that the present is all the more dearer and pending.  Every single moment that passes is recorded and remembered, knowing that something is about to occur that will lead to a completely new future.  Exhausted, each day is ended in a heap of dreams that twist to different corners of possibilities, outcomes.

When they were young, beyond what they may recall now, summer evenings were spent deep within the woods, at high elevations, cold nights.  The lake set out in pristine waters, a canoe waiting at the bank, life preservers moist from morning, the smell of campfires, bacon and coffee scented the day would begin.  To explore and discover were the only options for the day, when they are young there aren’t quiet moments, only movement.  Sitting not far from the shoreline, Bear Island patiently beckons, a sandy beach for a landing, a picnic, isolation.  They explore protected from the surrounding woods, knowing that the water that encircles us creates the perfect barrier, a fenced yard that prevents any potential for being lost within the forest, worry, anxiety.

Forty two hundred kilometers away a woman sits on a beach, shaded by an umbrella, accompanied by her young daughter who explores the sandy shoal, various family members coming and going.  Sunglasses cloak her eyes as see watches yachts and speed boats pass into the protective waters of the inner bay, the air breathing salty warm in the summer humidity.  On the other side of the harbor a city brims with tanning lotion, ice cream cones, the laughter that comes with a holiday away, a respite from all that waits at home.  She extends her legs out, feeling the hot sand between her toes, bits of scallop and clam shell, smoothed by water and salt, are collected and dropped one at a time, there is no reason to rush, she reminds herself.   Switch grasses patch the cliff line, separated through the relentless winter storms that batter the shore, easing into a summer calm that speaks of relief.  The young child grows agitated as the sun shifts, and is gathered close to be comforted, restored.  Will she remember this, or will just I?  She smiles at this thought, rising from her seat, into the sun to begin the short walk through the meadow for home.  Each step back to the summer house brings her closer to a nap, a fan blowing warm air that chills the skin into a late afternoon sleep to prepare for the evening rituals.  Together they will rest, until the sound of a cannon sounds on the distant shore, signally sunset, the beginning of a coming July evening.

And we wait, just as then, geographies collapsed, time unified, still waters seen in the coming distance.



About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
This entry was posted in Random, Sighs, Uncategorized, Uncertainty and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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