Please listen to my narration and music as you read along.
Darling a poem by Anneliese Dahl Darling, said a voice, for someone else, I thought, but, spoken, it raised my eyes. I sat alone on the thick grass. Bright and warm was the sun, on face, hair, my bent knees, and I drifted in the words of my very long book. Anywhere but there, everywhere but here. Darling, again she called, an elderly woman in white, finding me in and out among the words I read. She stepped daintily barefoot between the small trees, capturing me in her intent like the day’s joyful sun had already shaken me, taken me, from a mood. Pale, smiling with violet eyes, she seemed a young woman behind her gracefully aged face. Darling, a third time spoken, you shouldn’t be alone, darling, only reading … and such a title. She laughed and stood watching… me, a little, but also, mostly, the birds above in the branches, warming herself in a moment of dappled light and birdsong. Smile, love, smile for me and stop hiding yourself away, Mother always said to me as a child, when I was upset. She rubbed gently my shoulders, followed by a sneaky tickle. It always brought a smile and a day much brighter. I obscured small tears that came, a deceit of hands, rubbing, pretending to soothe tired eyes. When I shifted to rise, she instead joined me, sitting, unafraid to show her age in laughing huffs, a clumsy drop, no worry of grass stains on her long white linen dress. She gently touched my shoulder. behaving much like mother, and I laughed, bracing for a tickle I knew would never come. She was charming in lavender scent, a light smell of gin on her breath. Her eyes fixed me, silenced me. You are so beautiful, darling. She leaned against me lightly, and I laughed, calming inner seas. I took her hand, telling her softly I’d seen her walking there before, naming her the “Angel of the Park”. Her eyes crinkled merrily at that. My name is Angel, she said. Rosabella, I answered. Bella. Over there, she said, pointing, showing me the nearby cemetery, my sweet Bianca Rose rests. Come, darling, she said softly. I want to tell you about her… and you can meet my grandson, my darling, darling grandson. So I stood, willingly, to go, enjoying Angel’s company, but words fled me, strangely, and I contented myself with her many stories as we walked slowly the length of the park. I found the young man, her grandson, I supposed, sitting by Bianca Rose’s grave, enjoying the sun’s warmth. He was quietly reading aloud, until he saw me watching. Hello, he said, embarrassed. I read here to remember them… my mother and grandmother. I turned to Angel. She was gone. Your mother and … grandmother? He laughed until his eyes watered, once he realized how I had come. Angel is very alive, not a spirit. My other grandmother… rests. Grandmother Angel loves surprises and stands by the trees… there. He pointed to the near woods and rose to take my hand. Matteo. The devious Angel waved to me, and I laughed and shook my head. May I sit here with you, Matteo? He gestured and kept my hand, lowering me to soft grass as he noted the book I held. Well, we seem to be reading the very same book she dislikes, he said to me, laughing quietly. … and I thought to myself, also smiling in the lovely moment, that the sun is warm, grass soft, a beautiful Angel watches, and a “darling” young man smiles happily at me.
Thank you for reading and listening.