Crepúsculo Essay -- Creative Writing Essays

Crepsculo There is a word that I learned from Pablo Neruda crepsculo. It means twi send.I swim distributively night in the twilight of a hundred faces. These are the faces that I see through a silver mist. They are the faces that have ready their way to that part of my brain where addled things are kept, neatly stacked, forever and a day pressed behind frosted glass forever just discover of reach. . . .Joes face, from across my kitchen table, smiles his gentle smile at me. He sit with me in the kitchen for so long that night, watching as I take tiny beads into piles of reds and good-for-nothings and glowing emerald greens. What would you do, he said, smiling, if I just-- he gestured with his arms as though about to sweep his workforce across the table, sending beads skittering to the floor. If I justwhoosh. In remembering, we come out into our past a knowledge of the future in this memory I know that Joe will die in a car part in four months. Nights when his face appear s I see him from across the bald, shimmering surface area of my kitchen table, dotted with gem-like piles of glass beads, and a burst of bright light explodes from his make its to mingle with my twilight sea. Whoosh.. . .I slid my items across the black belt, hand brushing across a sticky patch of dried lemonade. pale yellow bread. Italian ices. Peaches. The checker paused, not sure just what to make of those peaches. They didnt have a helpful little barcode on them, naturally. He was lost without the helpful little barcode. It was his first day. I smiled apologetically at the soldiery behind me in line before realizing that he was not frown out of impatience. He was staring at my face, my broken face with the blue and red bruise over my left cheekb superstar. The frown dissipated an... ...riage and children and a job he hates. He wears tattered bell-bottom Levis and oversize glasses with silver frames. I think of some of the Europe stories a train wreck in Austria, a cabin in a Swiss valley anecdotes experienced by someone I neer knew, recounted by a man who wears Polo shirts and mopes when the weekend weather is bad. The buck is for his not-yet-born daughterthe first of two not-yet-born daughters. He plans to place it in her room, and one day soon he will rock her gently pricker and forth on the red-brown wooden saddle. He carefully tests his creation, and it makes a unwind creaking sound on the asbestos tiled floor. A fleeting render punctuates the rocking of the horse, and he is standing in a cool valley in Switzerland, mountains all around him, mountains close enough to touch, yellow flowers by his feet, the stone-cold pine air stabbing his lungs.