the day off, the open road and the old sofa

. . . . . . . sunday morning,  six a.m.  i wake to the alarm sounding off.   a moment of procrastination and i end up reaching over,  pushing the snooze button,  just one more time.  if only this was the first time doing so,  we’d already be up.  but this is the tenth time or so,  and i don’t want to leave here,  nice and warm,  with you.  i turn over and i wrap my arm around you.  and for the next ten minutes,  im just there,  holding you,  good morning.  i shut off the alarm,  and wipe my eyes  and yawn.  leaning over you,  i kiss you good morning,  and my kiss lingers a little longer.  soft lips and an early morning smile.  //  we wake,  and make our coffee.  a day off,   and we drive off.   we shower and dress, and head out the door in record time.  opening and closing the door,  morning air,  cool and fresh.  into the truck,  and here we go.   i’ll pick the road,  if you just tell me the direction.  picking the road,  and where we end up,  i don’t want to know.  deciding not go to the city,  and though we love it there,  but we aren’t dealing with that traffic today.   small back country road,  open and free,  you and me.  //  driving down the open road,  and a full tank of gas,  here we are.  daylights breaking straight ahead,  beautiful day.  and the pre-dawn grey is rolling away.  slowly the sun glows,  peaking up,  higher and higher.  rolling down the windows,  the air rushing in gently,  and in between shifting of the gears,  you reach over to hold my hand.   traveling down the roads,  you can smell the freshly tilled soil,   let’s get ready to plant.   driving through this country town,  you see all the elder farmers gather at the local gas station,  sipping on their coffees outside, besides their dually trucks,  tip your cap,  ‘morn.   corn field,  soy bean fields,  mixed in with the few local dairy farms.  we drive through the town,  a main street with one blinking red light,  aligned with  mom and  pop stores and  a neon signed corner cafe.   next to the volunteer fire station,  we stop at the local’s  farmers market.  there,  all the produce goods,  all natural,  never touched by the poison.  bright red,  red delicious apples,  homemade pastries,  jams and jellies.  strawberries and berries,  juices and milk, delivered straight from the local dairy farm,  and most importantly,  freshly brewed coffee.  we load up with breakfast food and coffee,  heading out, we continue.   leaving that part of town lead us to the middle of no mans land,  farmland,  and a well placed billboard or two.  an old red barn,  a shiny silo and  grain elevator,  accompanied by a grain fed semi.  horses roam the pastures , and cows grazing the grassy fields.  car games,  and  conversations,  fill the surrounding air.  and when a minute of silence came through,  the sound of the tires rolling over an occasional crack in the road filled the void.  thump – thump, thump – thump,  all in a timed rhythm.  the bright sunshine eclipses the next towns mileage sign.   but we know its coming up because there are houses up on the horizon.  civilization.  gas stations and a town square.  and the antique malls are flirting among the flea market form.  pulling over to their parking lot, restroom break.  we run in and are greeted by the smell of old history items and popcorn.  a weird combination, quickly gotten used to,  quickly forgotten.  but as i wait for you to return,  i start looking around, and get lost among the collectables and old lp records.  concentrating on looking,  im interrupted by you sneaking up behind me,  startling me , you laugh and say “gotcha!”.   booth among booth we look and look some more,  trying to justify every cool looking thing that would go great in our home.  an old seven-up metal sign, a hotel neon sign,  a fox wrap and a victrola,  laughing,  we pass it all up;  until you came across this victorian sofa,  fell in love it and gave me a hundred reasons on why we needed it.  i stand firm on my not finding a reason,  and you pull your ace out;  puppy dog eyes and a pretty please.  and  i’m trumped. why in the world would we need a victorian sofa?  and everything we own is so not victorian.  i think the oldest thing in our possession is maybe, 1990’s, not 1890’s.  but you continue your puppy eyes and pretty please pout,  and i have no choise but to cave in.  finding something so special in this couch,   you win.   you know just how to weaken me,  until i cave,  and i just laugh and shake my head.   walking up to the front, i pay.  receiving help loading it up into the truck,  you tell me not to scratch it,  but nevermind that it’s from the victorian age,  and has never been scratched once through a hundred and twenty some-odd years.   hearing my sarcasm,  you jokingly slap my arm.  after i get it all tied down,  we hop back in the truck and you beg to get back home so we can make room for your new-found treasure.   we turn back towards the way we came in,  and down the block we stop to refuel .  and once again a full tank and an open road.  car games and open conversation,  and of course the conversation turns to brainstorming on how to rearrange the living room.   as the conversation fades and  sleepiness settles in,  and you lean your head on my shoulder and doze off.   driving back through the same scenes and farm fields.  the same small town,  but all the farmers are now either eating supper or off to bed to get their early starts for the next day.  the sun sinks lower in the sky, and i need to stretch.  almost home i wake you.  up the road,  coming home.  home stretch.  i pull into the drive and shut off the engine.  all excited you hop out and run to open the front door.  and before i am even done with the first strap,  you’re back to help carry it in.  and as we carefully pull it off the truck,  i jokingly remind you not to scratch it,  and you give me “the look”.  backing it in,  maneuvering it around the corner and into the family room,  we set it down.  you move a couple of things and i put it in the spot you point to.  against the wall facing the window,  there we sit.  trying it out,  i put my arm around you and you lay your head on my shoulder.  “this place works for now,” you tell me,  as you begin  to doze off again.  i could stay here all night, sitting and day dreaming,  but you grab my hand and lead me to bed.  night time.  good night.  and as we climb up the stairs,  i tell you  that im glad that i talked you into getting the sofa,  because it looks real nice in its new home.  we laugh and change and slide into bed.  i turn over and i wrap my arm around you.  and for the next ten minutes,  falling asleep,  im just there, holding you,  wishing that the day never has to end.  but as long as i have her to wake up to,  i don’t mind facing the end of a day. 

 

 

c.2013  BGW

About bradford graham west

enjoy poetry about life, emotion and everything in between. it's real and true. - please read and enjoy! - bgw
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