The air wore the subtlest crisp, but the sun supplied a gentle reposte, as we three feathers floated down the Belfastian streets in the late morning.
As we meandered our way to the shoppe we had sought, we spoke of matters large and small: ambitions for the coming years of education, and further in life; whether the rubbish bin we passed had caught of its natural volition, or whether it was a mischievous arsonist who had kindled a fire in the ash receptacle which capped it.
I, having the outrageous fortune of accompanying these twin beauties who had joined me from their Lone Star, gloried in their veritable ballet of debate, and–through even their exposition that no malice presented itself amid their bickering, I–was thoroughly enjoying the well practiced match they presented. I felt, in a word, home, not because of their assurance, but because of the rather personal display of familial exchange which I had been invited to rest within.
Inside the bazaar, were vendors of handcrafts, food–both raw and prepared–booths in sufficient quantity and quality to activate the Pavlovian response in our salivary glands, and music of a skill quite appreciable for we the gentle masses to enjoy.
Returned to the quieted street, it was after all a Saturday morning, we turned our promenade to follow the the smell of the water, and the flight of the seagull–those giant cockroaches of the skies, whose brazenness seemed to know no bounds as they snatched food directly from tourists hands on the beaches of Brighton but three days prior, and here practiced restraint, or perhaps simply manners, the likes of which thought unknown in this “lesser” species.
A stranger danced upon a rail, and inspired us to our own flight, which we practiced for a score of minutes before moving along.
Hunger commencing to gnaw at our hearts, we returned to the bazaar to procure the necessary supplies for a feast to be made upon our return to our Vagabonds lodging.
We cooked. I offered a spoon of vegetable salad which I fed to the angel beside me as she cleaned her dishes, at once being accepted intimately and feeing as if we had known one another for several years or perhaps lifetimes, as opposed to mere hours. I danced and sang through the preparation, as is my custom, and sat we down to eat. As a pair, we enjoyed the unique closeness that can only be provided by eating directly from the same vessel, while we reacquainted ourselves with each other after our souls’ long division.
Others joined, and tasted of my handiwork, and we enjoyed group discussion and familiarity.
Exiting to the rear garden, Sophie and I enjoyed a solitudinous exchange of life which can only be seen by those beyond sight. I wondered at the texture of her lips, and I peered into the sea of truth that was her eyes. She wondered, it would later be revealed, at the texture of my hands, such tired and well used tools of this artist which lay beside her, but as it would transpire, we both wondered in silence to each to the other. For what reason was our silence manifest, perhaps neither of us can say in truth, but led us forward did such silent questioning into the evening, the arrival of more lodgers and friends, and the inebriated challenge of dexterous showcase whose name is the ever simple, “table tennis.”
The night for me would end too soon, my wondering being placed upon a shelf for later discovery, as I would extract myself to complete my journey already a quartet of weeks passed–five sheets to the wind, propelled at full sail, influenced by the juice of the barley–and stumble to the rendezvous location where my steel coach lay waiting to direct me onward, to the great metallic eagle which urged my return to the reality I had lovingly misplaced for a short time of life.
Within the sound chamber of my lyre-like heart, was the knowledge that it would not be the last meeting with the two angels who had graced me with inclusion for that day–that day which was but an unknown blip in the waveform of time…but which, within the light of my soul, felt as an eternity.
The Wondering Hebrew 
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