M G Stephens

M G Stephens

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

The days go by like stray horses galloping off into the sunset at the horizon. I am not alone, I tell

myself. But I am alone. Years have gone by. Now I am old. The days are numbered. There are no

more infinite possibilities, though I still think of you, a kind of human perfection, imperfectly

rendered, a wrinkle, a zit, even a scar. What was your favorite flower? Your favorite color? What

number always brought you luck? What was our favorite dish? Or film? Or piece of music? I

would need to know if my love was real, an earned tenderness, not this weak desire to still wish

to ingratiate myself into your favor. You would know these same things about me, but I doubt

that you do know what they are. Blue. Of sky. Blue of water. Blue flowers, tinged with the

slightest hint of purple, and perfection. Seven. Pasta con le sarde. Buster Keaton in The General.

The Battle of Algiers. Goodfellas. The Godfather. Fellini. Godard. Truffaut. De Sica.

Thelonious Monk’s “Coming on the Hudson.” Monk’s “Ruby, My Dear.” Monk at the piano at

the Five Spot. Monk up there dancing underneath his prophetic pork-pie hat. Oh, yes, my

favorite painting was “Interior at Nice” by Henri Matisse. I loved the singing of my youngest

granddaughter, the paintings my oldest granddaughter painted at her wooden easel in the living

room. Watching my daughter’s films. Going to Ireland with them. The Irish Sea outside our

stone cottage on the little island off of Dublin in the Irish Sea. The fog, the rain, the low clouds,

the richness in the air, the chill riding the air that is broken by a wool sweater, a scarf, my beret

or that old Irish wool rainhat I wore, the waterproof boots, my gloves. My love…