No. 202 - The Shape of Freedom

I’m sitting lakeside in Austin at a coffee shop.

I can feel the warmth of the setting sun on my face…my earlobe warm to the touch.

The wind is cool, moving across the water, causing ripples over green grass that sways like hula dancers below the surface.

The hills are dotted with Spanish architecture and boxy modern homes. A red-and-white radio tower, hundreds of feet tall, is tethered to the earth with thick cables.

In front of me is The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion, a coffee, and an empty plate with orange, blue, and purple sprinkles from a sugar cookie.

At two o’clock are two men with gray mustaches—one with a Chevron, the other sporting handlebars. They’re smiling and talking about driving their RVs across the country.

At four o’clock are two bearded Middle Eastern men; one in a Burberry trench coat with Ray-Bans, the other with wavy black hair.

At six o’clock are two women: one Black, with short gray hair, attractive, her spine straight; the other an aging Eastern European with hay-colored hair.

At ten o’clock is a marina with red, white, orange, blue, and black boats.

A little Indian girl walks by in a violet down jacket and a smile that melts my heart. Has anyone ever been so excited? My guess is her parents promised her a cookie.

At eleven o’clock is a man in a mustard-colored hat, unshaven, wearing a blue T-shirt and gray trousers. A grin is fixed across his face.

The sun is now blocked by a turquoise-colored restaurant; the air turns cooler, and my earlobe is no longer absorbing the heat.

I dreamed up this life when I was drunk on wanderlust many years ago. I had to get away. I had to be on the road.

I was never going to make it in a real job. My mind was everywhere but where my salary said it should be.

And now I have “it”—it being freedom. And with it came the brutal reality that nothing lives up to how you imagined it.

All the people sitting around me have left. Only a few seats have been replaced. The sun has repositioned itself and is shining on me again.

At one o’clock are two girls, one of whom reminds me of my daughter, and it breaks my heart. She has the same wavy blond hair, and from what I can gather, she possesses Annabelle’s gentle spirit.

I get to live my dream, alone.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX