by Kim Moes
Momentarily distracted from my paperback,
my eyes scan the shoreline of Pipers Lagoon.
Serenity’s blanket protects me from the
ocean’s chilled breath.
An elderly lady sits to my right and
appears to be reading a letter.
She smiles once, then laughs loud.
I imagine consonants dancing and
vowels singing on the yellow lined paper
in front of her. Guilt overwhelms me as
I participate in her private moment.
But even as I try to turn away she
pulls the letter to her chest.
My eyes drink in
the elixir of this stolen pleasure.
She places the letter on her lap and
pulls a fresh pad of paper out.
Pencil in hand she becomes Maestro—
up and down, making music.
Her eyes rise to the
sky’s inspiration only once.
Tears caress her laughter lines.
With one last press against her heart,
she carefully folds the message into
her purse. I wonder why
we no longer write the old-fashioned way.
Returning to my novel, I rejoin
my own moment.
The only moment that matters.
My hip buzzes. Oh, I’ve got mail.