street opened up into the open area of the piazza.
A crowd of people ringed the entire piazza. In the middle there were four groups of men, marching around with different colored flags, preparing for a flag-throwing contest. One group at a time, they threw their flags high in the air as the drum and trumpet music sounded. The flags appeared to stop in mid-air before plummeting toward the men’s hands as the crowd gasped and cheered. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm.
Carlisle moved closer to the crowd but, because she was shorter, could no longer see the center of the piazza. She saw three stone steps leading up toward an old building and moved toward them to gain a better vantage point. Several other people had the same idea and gathered on the steps, peering over the crowd at the grand show in the center of the piazza. The crowd clapped and cheered, and the people nudged one another and pointed out their favorite team of flag throwers. But Carlisle’s attention had been drawn away from the festivities, and the band’s music began to fade into the background of her mind as distant memories took over.
There to her left on the stairs stood a tall, handsome man about her age. He’d have never stood out from the crowd except that he had a small butterscotch-haired girl perched on his shoulders who appeared to be about six or seven years old and who looked just like her own little girl. “I like the men with the blue and white flags, Daddy!” she exclaimed.
The man glanced over and nodded a friendly “hello” to Carlisle, but she couldn’t respond. It was as if she was frozen in place, unable to stop staring, unable to turn away, unable to move.
“Oh, sorry,” said a man behind her who’d bumped into her as the crowd shifted. It was enough to jar her out of the momentary catatonic state, and Carlisle seized the opportunity to run down the steps and back toward the street that had led her to the piazza in the first place.
Gasps and sobs escaped from her mouth as she scurried toward home, all the while trying to remain invisible to the others who casually strolled along the streets for some evening window shopping. As she hurried down the street, the memories she’d pushed out of her mind for the last years welled up in her chest, and then climbed to her throat where she felt they might strangle the life out of her. “Oh my god, no, no, no,” she whispered as she realized she couldn’t overcome them tonight.
It was a lost cause, and Carlisle knew it; she felt herself plummeting backward through some sort of wormhole in time, being pulled back by the thoughts and feelings she’d refused to acknowledge for nearly seven years. In her mind, the shops on either side of the street morphed into the warm yellow interior of her small house in Portland, Oregon while the cobblestone streets of Verona became the honey-colored laminate floor of her living room. “My horoscope says to avoid road trips,” she could hear herself reading aloud to him in a half-joking manner. The scene began to play out in her mind like a movie she didn’t want to watch but was powerless to stop.
“Your horoscope,” William had replied, as he grabbed the newspaper and playfully rapped her on the head with it. “That’s your horoscope, and you know I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides, Anna has been waiting to see the redwoods again for months. It’s our best chance—the weather is beautiful, I’ve got time and you have a novel to work on, my beautiful author of a wife!”
There had been no arguing with him that morning, and William was right; she needed to stay home and work on her novel or she faced the risk of missing her deadline from the publisher. Carlisle had relented and helped their six-year-old daughter Anna get ready while William loaded up the car for their overnight camping trip. She’d been brushing her daughter’s freshly washed butterscotch-colored hair when her husband came back in
A crowd of people ringed the entire piazza. In the middle there were four groups of men, marching around with different colored flags, preparing for a flag-throwing contest. One group at a time, they threw their flags high in the air as the drum and trumpet music sounded. The flags appeared to stop in mid-air before plummeting toward the men’s hands as the crowd gasped and cheered. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm.
Carlisle moved closer to the crowd but, because she was shorter, could no longer see the center of the piazza. She saw three stone steps leading up toward an old building and moved toward them to gain a better vantage point. Several other people had the same idea and gathered on the steps, peering over the crowd at the grand show in the center of the piazza. The crowd clapped and cheered, and the people nudged one another and pointed out their favorite team of flag throwers. But Carlisle’s attention had been drawn away from the festivities, and the band’s music began to fade into the background of her mind as distant memories took over.
There to her left on the stairs stood a tall, handsome man about her age. He’d have never stood out from the crowd except that he had a small butterscotch-haired girl perched on his shoulders who appeared to be about six or seven years old and who looked just like her own little girl. “I like the men with the blue and white flags, Daddy!” she exclaimed.
The man glanced over and nodded a friendly “hello” to Carlisle, but she couldn’t respond. It was as if she was frozen in place, unable to stop staring, unable to turn away, unable to move.
“Oh, sorry,” said a man behind her who’d bumped into her as the crowd shifted. It was enough to jar her out of the momentary catatonic state, and Carlisle seized the opportunity to run down the steps and back toward the street that had led her to the piazza in the first place.
Gasps and sobs escaped from her mouth as she scurried toward home, all the while trying to remain invisible to the others who casually strolled along the streets for some evening window shopping. As she hurried down the street, the memories she’d pushed out of her mind for the last years welled up in her chest, and then climbed to her throat where she felt they might strangle the life out of her. “Oh my god, no, no, no,” she whispered as she realized she couldn’t overcome them tonight.
It was a lost cause, and Carlisle knew it; she felt herself plummeting backward through some sort of wormhole in time, being pulled back by the thoughts and feelings she’d refused to acknowledge for nearly seven years. In her mind, the shops on either side of the street morphed into the warm yellow interior of her small house in Portland, Oregon while the cobblestone streets of Verona became the honey-colored laminate floor of her living room. “My horoscope says to avoid road trips,” she could hear herself reading aloud to him in a half-joking manner. The scene began to play out in her mind like a movie she didn’t want to watch but was powerless to stop.
“Your horoscope,” William had replied, as he grabbed the newspaper and playfully rapped her on the head with it. “That’s your horoscope, and you know I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides, Anna has been waiting to see the redwoods again for months. It’s our best chance—the weather is beautiful, I’ve got time and you have a novel to work on, my beautiful author of a wife!”
There had been no arguing with him that morning, and William was right; she needed to stay home and work on her novel or she faced the risk of missing her deadline from the publisher. Carlisle had relented and helped their six-year-old daughter Anna get ready while William loaded up the car for their overnight camping trip. She’d been brushing her daughter’s freshly washed butterscotch-colored hair when her husband came back in
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