PAINTING STUDIO And PAGE ONE, page one, The Novel A Work In Progress By Stephen Craig Rowe

     Page, I whispered and touched her shoulder as she began to stir from sleep.  Light and shadow played about the walls in dim deep night that held a cry for and from within a dream that was rather like a knock at the after midnight door.  Sweet soft sheets moaned and turned pillow to pillow, face to face, and as she was about to say something, anything.  I made a hush sign with a finger to my lips and felt my breath on my finger tip that blew upon her brow.  Now a eye lit here and there quiz and tiny wrinkle as she found my hand.  Quiet Page, please, I thought I heard something.  She looked at me, smiled, and went back to her dreams only a pillow away.

     Waited as she fell back to sleep and turned myself out of bed as my eyes adjusted to the pre dawn light bare foot and quiet as a cat made way to check the doors and windows.  Again all was safe and secure.  In the kitchen I thought about making coffee but took a small glass of brandy and went to the study, the studio, looked at the paintings, the book lined walls and thought about the past, that was, is, and ever shall be.  Wrote some thoughts down on crisp new sheets of paper as a spring thunder storm rolled in.  Looked off into space and let myself brandy dance in clouds with the rolling thunder and shots of lightning shocking the pages in a bright white stark blue that made the trees and lawns go a green glare glad in the roar of the night and dreamed.

      Page asked me if I had a book about Amazing Grace.  We were walking on a sandy path in the woods but near the sea and there were people about in small villages that smiled at us as we passed.  Tan, fit and walking hand in hand light of the day I began to sing Amazing Grace and Page joined in the song.  My voice was old time drone and wailing like a fiddle held close to the chest for the bow strings to resonate in my lungs as the words came out all scrangly and more meaningful than they were.  Page sang the high notes clear and each word carried the tune away while I tried to catch up with my scrawling pitch.  The rains began to fall and we kept singing.  Laughing in and out of tune, a riot of song and joy in the rain and sun.

       I woke sometime later with my head on the keypad.  The computer flashed some emails and messages.  A car hissed on the wet streets as I took a sip of brandy.  Rains fell on the rose garden.  I knew Page was not here as I turned down the bed and put on a pot of coffee.

       Wrote some more, thought about page one, of PAGE ONE, the novel.  Smiled and went to work on writing and painting.

As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe