I was perusing a peopleless pier when I saw the old man. He had grizzly hair, sunken eyes and a crooked nose, his grace humbled by his age. My feet chose on their own accord as I wandered over there. Silence gripped our shoulders like an overbearing parent. My breaths were as loud as the waves caressing the shore.
“Hello,” I said and then words poured out of the crevices of our souls in a sweeping waterfall. Pleasantries were deleted like the dinosaurs and our words embraced like long lost friends. Our ages blown away with the fleeting tide. And our minds danced beneath the stars. He gifted me a necklace of pearls: wisdom, kindness and offered to wrap it around my heart. I traded him a cufflink of endless imagination to wear with his heart on his sleeve.
We were trading our words in between the spaces of the world and we traded the world in between the spaces of our words. He told me that a single person could be wrapped up in a few words, that 10 or 11 letters could categorize someone’s essence. He told me that it is the goal of his life to surpass this boundary.
You must wonder how we could be, people, on a peopleless pier, well the old man was only a story in the wind and me, a thinker, perusing a peopleless pier.
By Odessa Goldberg
“Hello,” I said and then words poured out of the crevices of our souls in a sweeping waterfall. Pleasantries were deleted like the dinosaurs and our words embraced like long lost friends. Our ages blown away with the fleeting tide. And our minds danced beneath the stars. He gifted me a necklace of pearls: wisdom, kindness and offered to wrap it around my heart. I traded him a cufflink of endless imagination to wear with his heart on his sleeve.
We were trading our words in between the spaces of the world and we traded the world in between the spaces of our words. He told me that a single person could be wrapped up in a few words, that 10 or 11 letters could categorize someone’s essence. He told me that it is the goal of his life to surpass this boundary.
You must wonder how we could be, people, on a peopleless pier, well the old man was only a story in the wind and me, a thinker, perusing a peopleless pier.
By Odessa Goldberg