Here, I Dream

As it did every Saturday night, the dance ended precisely at the stroke of midnight with Johnny Horton's version of "My Special Angel" and the crowd broke up and drifted off in small groups and pairs and alone.  Some headed for Tiverton at the other end of the island, some piled into cars to make the last ferry to Westport.   Gene and I, with Buttons dutifully leading the way, began the walk to The Point, in no rush to end the evening - we were young, there was a full moon, the scent of the ocean was in the air and the stars seemed close enough to touch.


Later that very early Sunday morning when I couldn't sleep, I slipped out of the house and walked down the front path to the water's edge and my favorite sitting rock.  It was a place I often went to think, ponder, wonder and dream.  The night was very still by then and the ocean serenely dark and calm - the boats at their moorings seemed like still lifes and what few lights were still shining might've been fireflies.  I listened to the gentle tide washing up on shore, crickets sang and sometimes, though I couldn't see them, I imagined I heard the flutter of a seagull's wings.  The soft summer night was just beginning to think about being morning when someone called my name - I turned and sensed rather than saw Sparrow's silhouette, not much more than a shadow on his front porch, his faraway features briefly lit by a match flare.


Up late for an old man, I said as I walked up the path toward him.


Mebbe, I heard him say, Or mebbe I'm jist up early.  What be your exuse, girl?


I climbed the old steps and sat down Indian style by his rocking chair, accepted a hand rolled cigarette and declined a drink from his jug.  The old hound dog by his feet woke just long enough to recognize and give me a friendly nudge.  Sparrow just rocked and smoke, smoked and rocked.


Thinkin' 'bout marryin' that boy?  he asked presently.


Thinkin' 'bout it, I admitted after a few seconds.


Won't work, he said mildly.


Why not? I heard myself ask, despite the certain knowledge that I didn't want to know.


The old man struck another match - his fingers tremored ever so slightly and his face, old and tired like dried out leather, was unreadable.  First light was starting to work its way over Westport and I could tell it was going to be a clear, fine, island day - just the kind the summer people prayed for, the kind of day you might remember for a long time.  The hound dog woke again, stretched and shook himself, then wandered down the steps, circled a patch of grass and gave a mighty yawn and eventually laid back down, his head resting on his front paws.  Sparrow blew smoke rings into the lightening air, a trick he'd always refused to teach us, and leaned his head back to watch them break apart and vanish.  I could've asked a second time but it'd have been a waste of time and breath - island folk spoke when they were ready and took a dim view of being rushed - and it was several more minutes before I realized that the old man had fallen asleep.  


I finished the cigarette and ground it out just as it turned full dawn.  Here, I dream, I thought to myself and headed home.  Sparrow and the dog slept peacefully on.