The window reflected a younger man in memory as the steam from the coffee cup fogged one square pane of glass. A smaller figure with an age spotted hand reached out from behind him and drew a familiar “x” and an “o” in the condensation. It was a familiar signature to him.
“Good morning”, she said as she leaned in for a small kiss on his lips.
He turned to look at his wife. Raising his hand to touch her face, he remembered the soft fair skin and darker hair of her youth; even through the years she had remained beautiful, wrinkles and all.
The drawings on the window faded and he was reminded that he was alone. Only the kisses from memory and her empty coffee cup hanging on the rack on the kitchen wall.
He swallowed back the tears with a drink from his mug and moved from the table to the kitchen sink. How old this house was, even older than he and how much they had put into building it into a home. All those days replayed in his head of standing in the kitchen and sitting at the table talking of the plans they had over a hot cup of coffee. She never seemed to be able to resist getting in a few kisses somehow. She loved being close to him and he loved that about her.
As the years rolled on they had their ups and downs, yet nothing that couldn’t be settled over a good talk, cup of coffee and ending in those sweet and sometimes fevered kisses.
He chuckled to himself as he rinsed off the few breakfast dishes, remembering the day she swore she could figure how to change out the line for the water filter. She had drowned herself in the process. She had been so sexy standing there in wet shirt, stringing hair, face dripping. He had put his coffee cup on the table and laughingly gone over to her. Teasing her efforts and seeing she was becoming irritated by it, he had kissed her full on the mouth. This led to a passionate excursion on the wet, cold floor, interrupted by kids busting in from school to grab a quick afternoon snack.
Smiling he refilled his coffee mug and got ready to start working on another project. She was no longer there to come out and see the new idea he was getting going.
The kids were grown and gone, so he had a lot more “busy work” these days, work to keep him from thinking too much on what the heart was missing.
He situated the cap on his head and zipped up his coveralls, heading out to the barn. It was a cold, gray morning. He looked back at the kitchen window, sighed with a smile and then turning around walked on through the brown grass.
Back in the kitchen a small area of the window fogged up and an “x’ and “o” appeared inside the square pane of glass.
Dumas was the son of one of Napoleon’s generals, Thomas Alexandre Dumas, and a Haitian slave woman, Marie Cessette Dumas. Because he was born of mixed heritage and yet still to prominence, Dumas weas sent to receive rich education, but his family struggled financially after his father’s death in 1806. Dumas went to Paris to find work and was hired by the household of the Duke D’Orleans, who became King Louis-Philippe. Dumas began writing plays, which became huge hits with the public, then turned to historical novels. He published The Three Musketeers in 1844, followed by The Count of Monte Cristo in 1845.
Dumas led a tempestuous life filled with ruinous love affairs. Women loved him for his uniqueness of looks (he was Negro/French) and his attention to detail in ALL areas. He fathered many illegitimate children. His illegitimate son, Dumas fils ( French for son), also became a writer-the two were later known as the “Deuling Dumas’s “.
Such is Passion, and the brighter its blaze the blacker the ruins it leaves after it–the deeper the misery–the wider the loneliness. It devours itself, with no revival like the Phoenix; but Love occupies the whole of life, however extended, and still has the strength and volume to transport its worshipers to the realm of the happy.–Ch.22, The Son of Clemenceau ~ Dumas fils
What is in your heart today that you would fight for, give your life for?
Have you ever felt a passion for someone or something within you that was so great you would fight for it?
Think about it. Who or what lights the fire in your soul.
For what or for whom, would you be willing to embrace that battle?
Today is Bannockburn Day? On this day, the
people of Scotland celebrate their victory under the
command of Robert Bruce over the English in the Battle
of Bannockburn in 1314. Each year the Scottish National
Party commemorates the battle with a march to
Bannockburn field from Stirling town centre. There then
follows a laying of a wreath at the statue of Robert
Bruce and then a rally.
For the whole story on the sequence of the battle please visit below:
“Don’t be afraid to go out on a limb. That’s where the
— H. Jackson Browne