Crepúsculo Essay -- Creative Writing Essays

Crepsculo There is a word that I learned from Pablo Neruda crepsculo. It means twilight.I swim each night in the twilight of a hundred faces. These are the faces that I see through with(predicate) a fluent mist. They are the faces that have found their way to that bankrupt of my brain where lost things are kept, neatly stacked, forever pressed rear frosted glass forever just out of reach. . . .Joes face, from crossways my kitchen table, smiles his gentle smile at me. He sat with me in the kitchen for so long that night, watching as I sorted tiny beads into piles of reds and blues and glowing emerald greens. What would you do, he said, smiling, if I just-- he gestured with his fortification as though about to sweep his hands across the table, direct beads skittering to the floor. If I justwhoosh. In remembering, we inject into our past a knowledge of the future in this memory I know that Joe leave alone die in a car crash in quad months. Nights when his face appears I s ee him from across the bald, shimmering expanse of my kitchen table, dotted with gem-like piles of glass beads, and a burst of bright light explodes from his hands to modify with my twilight sea. Whoosh.. . .I slid my items across the black belt, hand brushing across a sticky patch of dried lemonade. Wheat bread. Italian ices. Peaches. The break paused, not sure just what to make of those peaches. They didnt have a helpful critical barcode on them, naturally. He was lost without the helpful little barcode. It was his number 1 day. I smiled apologetically at the man behind me in line before realizing that he was not frowning out of impatience. He was staring at my face, my broken face with the blue and red injure over my left cheekbone. The frown dissipated an... ...riage and children and a job he hates. He wears tattered bell-bottom Levis and oversized glasses with silver frames. I think of some of the Europe stories a train shipwreck in Austria, a cabin in a Swiss valley ane cdotes experienced by someone I never knew, recounted by a man who wears Polo shirts and mopes when the weekend weather is bad. The horse is for his not-yet-born daughterthe first of two not-yet-born daughters. He plans to place it in her room, and one day shortly he will rock her gently back and forth on the red-brown wooden saddle. He carefully tests his creation, and it makes a slow creaking audio on the asbestos tiled floor. A fleeting image punctuates the rocking of the horse, and he is stand up in a cool valley in Switzerland, mountains all almost him, mountains close enough to touch, yellow flowers by his feet, the cold pine form stabbing his lungs.