Valparaiso Written: November 13, 2003 For Kiltie, who shares my love of all things striped and angsty. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And every road I walked would take me down to the sea With every broken promise in my sack And every love would always send the ship of my heart Over the rolling sea Sometimes, quiet on his back in the gently swaying hammock, Barrett could just turn his head enough to see a chink of night sky in the tiny square of the nearest portal. His portal — he had claimed it long ago for nights like this, had taken that swatch of clean and cool and open for his own in the cramped and breathless humor of the barracks. His by right, bought with a lifetime of sweat and salt and rope-burnt hands leaving bloody prints on the wheel. Sometimes, if he twisted just right, jostled for a better fit in the herring-barrel of sleeping sailors, he could lift his face enough to see the whole window. And if the gods were really in his favor, a star would be waiting for him there. On a night like that, Barrett would stare and stare at that patch of brilliant black, and the crowded miasma around him would drop away until he could feel himself starting to lift like fog on the cliffs. He had no words to describe the feeling that single star sparked in his heart — he lacked the knowledge or grace for such things, he knew. All he could think was that the more he looked, the less he could feel the elbows in his ribs and the itching in his skin; the more the choked and fetid air faded and dissolved to cold salt wind, crisp and fresh. It was only during moments like that that the nights of his life began to resemble the days. He'd been chasing it all his life, something finer and better than he had a right to touch, something just around the next bluff and just over the next swell. The chase thrilled his blood, and he never really asked for more than the searching of it, but still he sought and waited. Because once, long ago, someone had told him that everyone deserved to feel their heart swell with the joy of true beauty. Everyone had a right to search for something more. Barrett had no eloquence to grasp such things, but sometimes, when he lay here and felt the night curl through the haze and breathe across his face, he remembered those words and thought that maybe he could imagine something more than this life he loved so much. Something even greater than the star that glimmered in his blinking eyes. And sometimes, somewhere in those thoughts, he thought he could hear the faint sound of a cello drifting high and sweet in the night above. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ home