The Man With The Glass Heart

Chapter 7

The next morning unfolded gloriously.

The light blue sky had the touchably soft look of baby blanket. The sun didn't just shine, it spun out wide spirals of light in ever widening circles like a whirligig, causing morning to collide with earth in a clean, hot explosion of dawn.

The air, too, was so clear and clean it seemed to have been polished with pumice stones; and each blade of grass stood erect and at attention, like soldiers awaiting inspection by a king.

It was a grand, grand morning.

Benjamin gave his wheelbarrow a push, and we were off.

I took to the road with all my old enthusiasms clacking happily around my soul like castanets. Even Benjamin seemed affected by the majesty of the day. Twice, he stopped the wheelbarrow to take deep, soul-satisfying breaths and let them out with what was surely a smile of contentment, although he did not actually smile.

His heart, too, reflected the specialness of the day.

It positively gleamed.

Maybe it shone so brilliantly because Benjamin had polished its surface before the sun rose. Maybe an unusual quality of morning air interacted in an incomprehensible chemistry that only occurs between ozone and glass hearts on beautiful, blue-skied days.

I don't know the reason why.

I do know that Benjamin Pencil's glass heart blazed out such bright reflections of sunlight and grass and trees and even of me and him that I could not look at it directly without being blinded.

All morning long, he pushed his wheelbarrow up the road.

All morning long, I strode alongside, keeping pace and pretending to be a decorous companion, but really having to suppress a laughing imp inside. Laughing and urging me to let my hair fly, leave Benjamin Pencil behind, and run. Run for the energy in my heart. Run for the glory of the day. Run for my joy in being alive. But mostly ... mostly ...just to run for the maddeningly wonderful, sheer pleasure of running.

All morning, I held it in. All the while we were pushing the wheelbarrow to the very top of a green, green hill, I held it in. Then, with both the sun and the road at their peaks, my heart swung to the top of some sort of a crazy 90-degree angle, too, and I let go.

I howled. I leaped. I sprang over a corner of Benjamin's wheelbarrow, and I raced down the side of the hill.

What joy!

So wild. So free. So heart gladdening, I envied myself my own soul.

I ran. I raced. I flew down the hill until it was far behind me, and a field of sunflowers leaped into view.

I ran. I raced. I flew past the sunflowers.

Past a farm with a blue tile roof and a bright green barn door.

Past five sheep nibbling on rhododendrons and old shoes.

Past a puddle over which an oily rainbow was splayed.

Across a rickety wood bridge posted with a sign that said: IF YOU CAN'T SWIM, DON'T CROSS.

Past a brown and white cow grazing in clusters of goldenrod.

And up another hill.

The last one.

At the top of that hill, I stopped.

On the other side of the hill was the river. It was so close. Too close. I had arrived too soon.

I considered the distance.

If I ran, I would get there in five minutes.

If I walked, it would take ten.

If I ambled, I could stretch it to half-an-hour.

If I dillydallied, dawdled, and picked roadside flowers along the way, I wouldn't get there for a good hour, and that was how long it would take for Benjamin Pencil to catch up.

I could wait for him at the river.

The river was our turn-off and goodbye point. From there, I would go east to my beloved mountains. Benjamin would continue north on his somewhat less precarious journey to wherever he thought that men with glass hearts should go.

That would happen soon enough.

But not yet.

Not now.

Now, I had the time to tarry.

I pushed aside all thoughts of parting, and stepped off the road. The fields on either side exploded in a panoply of colors. Reds, blues, yellows, golds, purples, and pinks. Coreopsis shone like little suns. Meadowsweet danced like powder puffs. Poppies, dahlias, iris, lupine, foxglove, and phlox fluttered happily like thousands of well-wishing hands waving to friends about to sail off on a cruise.

Maybe the flowers were particularly vibrant because they grew near a river. Greens are always greener, trees are always leafier, and flowers are always more flamboyant where water flows.

Maybe water is to flowers, what champagne is to stiff-spined prudes.

The flowers were drunk.

The trees were bemused.

The grass was giggling in the wind.

And so was I.