Satuday

It’s been a dreary Saturday of readings intertwined with movies and television, anything to break the monotonous wisdom of Clausewitz, narrated by the seemingly constant sound of lady’s hard-soled shoes as they walk down the road, past the playground, and through the park which my room backs onto. It’s November now, you can smell it in the air and see it in the trees. The brisk cool air punctures effortlessly my window pane and seeps straight into my long bare feet. Children play across the road, football and tag among the field and play contraption while I sit read and read of the winning of war. I break for a lunch of crumbly cheese, mashed potatoes, and water, and think of the dinner to come. One of pasta, meat-sauce, and wine. The light fades early and will only continue darker as the time moves. But the children still play their assortment of balls and games as night climbs in the park across the road. Fireworks will soon begin to dot the sky as the long anticipated eve grows to fruition. For four-hundred years they have waited for this night and they will not wait one eve more. I leave the flat and walk across the courtyard barefoot, sandal clad, surprised at the temperateness. Perhaps it is just my imagination. Perhaps this cold is just a memory of Novembers past. Memory from times when I would sit and dream bundled warm looking out the window at the breath floating up from the mouths of strangers as they walk to where they go. But I am no longer there. I am here and as the light grows dimmer still, and the night grows strong with fire. I will make my dinner and eat it to the sound of children playing in the park and of hard-soled shoes walking to where they must go, down the street, past the playground, and through the park.