Part Three: Kin Domains support creativity
The Musician in Me (Part three of a short story I wrote. I posted part one on March 7, 2009 and part two on March 12.)
He portioned out that meager dinner over the entire forty-five minutes. When at last I stopped, he folded up his remains stuffing the contents into a small duffel bag. Eager to finish, I turned away and knelt to put my instrument in my case. A feather light tap on my shoulder startled me. I swiveled in a crouch and stared at stocking covered feet then let my gaze travel upward to the twinkling brown eyes of my audience.
I stood. He held out a pair of shoes. His polished new shoes. The shoes of a music lover. My mouth fell open. I slammed it shut as he thrust the shoes into my chest and I made a fumbled grab for them before they hit the pavement. He smiled and nodded at me then turned and meandered down the boardwalk.
What the heck had just happened? I didn’t need shoes. For that matter I didn’t need clothing, shelter, or food. Why had he chosen to give me the only thing of value to him? I quickly knotted the laces together and draped the shoes over my shoulder. Then finished packing up my instrument. If I hurried, I could probably find him to return the shoes.
I stooped and grabbed my case then waited for my mother to finish her conversation. I explained the situation to her. She studied me curiously then lectured on about gifting and receiving.
My eyes must have glazed over, as they were known to do when she got a bit preachy and esoteric, because she finally told me to try them on. I did. They flopped off my feet. I realized how much I had yet to grow to fill them. I looked up at her with my, what did you expect look. She shrugged and said someday the shoes would fit and that when that momentous day arrived, I would understand why he had given them to me.
I’m a man now. The shoes had fit when I was sixteen and cocky as could be. The moment I stepped into them, I recalled the twinkling brown eyes dancing with merriment. That long ago evening, I had nourished a soul. Filled him with something he couldn’t get at a warehouse or soup kitchen. He honored my gift of music by giving me his most prized possession. We had both been gifted something. My gift was learning how to receive.
He portioned out that meager dinner over the entire forty-five minutes. When at last I stopped, he folded up his remains stuffing the contents into a small duffel bag. Eager to finish, I turned away and knelt to put my instrument in my case. A feather light tap on my shoulder startled me. I swiveled in a crouch and stared at stocking covered feet then let my gaze travel upward to the twinkling brown eyes of my audience.
I stood. He held out a pair of shoes. His polished new shoes. The shoes of a music lover. My mouth fell open. I slammed it shut as he thrust the shoes into my chest and I made a fumbled grab for them before they hit the pavement. He smiled and nodded at me then turned and meandered down the boardwalk.
What the heck had just happened? I didn’t need shoes. For that matter I didn’t need clothing, shelter, or food. Why had he chosen to give me the only thing of value to him? I quickly knotted the laces together and draped the shoes over my shoulder. Then finished packing up my instrument. If I hurried, I could probably find him to return the shoes.
I stooped and grabbed my case then waited for my mother to finish her conversation. I explained the situation to her. She studied me curiously then lectured on about gifting and receiving.
My eyes must have glazed over, as they were known to do when she got a bit preachy and esoteric, because she finally told me to try them on. I did. They flopped off my feet. I realized how much I had yet to grow to fill them. I looked up at her with my, what did you expect look. She shrugged and said someday the shoes would fit and that when that momentous day arrived, I would understand why he had given them to me.
I’m a man now. The shoes had fit when I was sixteen and cocky as could be. The moment I stepped into them, I recalled the twinkling brown eyes dancing with merriment. That long ago evening, I had nourished a soul. Filled him with something he couldn’t get at a warehouse or soup kitchen. He honored my gift of music by giving me his most prized possession. We had both been gifted something. My gift was learning how to receive.
posted by Julie A. Carda | 9:05 AM
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