that day.

“We finished everything, including half of a strawberry pie. For a few moments we sat as if stunned. Sweat beaded our faces. Finally we got up from the table and left our dirty plates. We did not look back.”

~ Raymond Carver, “Cathedral”

She sat in the crook of the valley, nestled in the grass. She sat nestled in the grass, between the comfort of the shadows and the glow of the sun. She sat nestled in the grass in front of me. Next to us, a wicker basket held an overflow of sandwiches and a box of wine. The sun glinted in her hair, the wind blew through mine. She passed to me, and everyone else, a plate of sandwiches. We ate in silence, and listened to the birds chirping in the trees and the gnats buzzing in a halo above us. The box of wine passed back and forth between us all, lighter each time.

Just when we felt too full to eat, drink, even breathe more, she drew a small, sharp intake of air and leaned forward. She searched the wicker basket until she found a small box of sliced strawberry pie. The box was passed around, and the box of wine was passed around some more. The sun had risen, the shadows receded, and everyone’s faces glowed red from the heat and the meal.

She pulled herself up lethargically, then pulled me up. Our foreheads were damp with sweat. The dirtied plates forgotten in the crook of the valley, the whole lot walked outward, upward. Our toes grasped the fronds of grass as we walked forward, our feet barely catching the comforting shade of our own shadows. It was a game. We walked on forever, trying to catch the comfort that grew from ourselves. The sun now beamed on our backs and shoulders, our hair hot, ears red, sweat glistening, the shadows of our bodies elongating before us. The wicker basket and the dirty plates, somewhere, nowhere, behind us. We wouldn’t know. We did not look back.

that night.

“I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.”

~ Raymond Carver, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”

The cloth softly swathed the square table, allowing a normally dull and lifeless room to shine in vigor. The faded brown was no more, instead, only a soft red warmth emanated from the covered table. Even the curtains lining one wall of the tiny space had lost their monotonous cream-brown; now, they glowed a patient golden. Vibrant reds, rustic oranges, vineyard purples and greens swirled across the room, in the form of people, food, and powerful emotion - everything promised life.

Forgotten, for a moment, were the sorrows and pains suffered for so long at a time not so long ago; forgotten were the pains and sorrows of the future; forgotten was the truth that now was a fleeting moment. Instead, they watched soft white, round bowls passed intermittently amidst the swirling colors, adding wafts of savory smells and the promise of a delightful meal. Soon, however, the soft white bowls rested on the autumnal red, and a hush blanketed the warm murmurs and the rings of laughter that had sounded not even a second before.

Everyone sat still in the hush.

The yellowed glow of candlelight wavered confidently among the many bodies crowding the tiny room, warding off the dark night that seeped slowly in through the windows. The people matched the fire’s fluid calm, standing in solidarity against the past, the future, and all things dark.

They could not hear it, but the room shared the single beat of a strong, sturdy heart.