“I’ll never forget the magic of our Saturday nights. Special moments carved in my mind by you the sculptor of my love. Let’s dance the night away. Who needs music, when your heart already sings to me.” ~ Fidelis O Mkparu (2016), author of ‘Love’s Affliction’
Whispers of love
“There was no moon to influence the night. Just you, your beauty, and your wondrous smile. We sat for two hours. Kisses and nibbles. Laughing and fondling. Falling for each other endlessly. We woke to embrace, and arouse. Fanning the fire we started. Losing every sense of time, and embracing candor. Whispers and moaning.” ~Fidelis O Mkparu, (2016) author of ‘Love’s Affliction’
Sunday mornings affect me in a special way. The effect is more profound when there are sunshine and blooming flowers in my garden. Enchanting flower beds outside my windows and buzzing bees. Who said the bees are dying off?
Rejuvenation starts with sunshine and a gentle breeze. I opened my back door this morning and stepped outside. Prickly sands reminded me of my feet nakedness. Who needs slippers? Elated state takes away your sense of reasoning. It’s true. Unfortunately, there was no hammock to lay my body. I walked to my parked car in the driveway before I wandered back inside the house. Don’t know why I did so.
“Opera this morning, or chamber music?” I asked. Yes, I speak to myself. It doesn’t worry me. Worrying about insanity does not help the afflicted. I’m sorry. I mean to say, the mentally disturbed. Wrong situation for fancy words. In my own defense, I blame my parents. After all, children inherit their quirks from their parents. Really? Of course, I am right. Look at poor me. Dennis and Virginia are responsible for all my follies. Should I have said foibles? Who cares? I have both shortcomings.
May I borrow some of your time to explain my position? I could not remember how old I was, but it was in the early nineteen sixties. Maybe I was four, or five years old. One day, my father brought home a burnished black car. He said, “Isn’t my ‘Austin of England’ beautiful?” A monstrous bundle of metal, but my tender eyes glistened. Sorry Dad, it was not beautiful. Imposing car frame with big rounded fenders is not my definition of a beauty. One consolation for you Dad, it had testosterone sprayed on it. You grew taller to me that day. You are right. My eyes played tricks on me again. To impress me more, you invoked the rain that afternoon, and raindrops on the car glistened in the sunshine that followed. I fell in love with your beast. Sorry to tell you my Papa, fifty years later, I am still obsessed with black cars. Testosterone laden black cars, of course. It was your fault. You only told me to avoid fast women.
Eventually, I belted my body down on the car seat and took a ride for you Dad. Listening to the roaring engine, I wondered who needs Opera when your car sings deep bass.
When you are afflicted, you resign to your fate.
Fidelis O Mkparu