blonds

There is a family sitting next to me this morning at breakfast, a blond haired couple with an equally blond daughter. The kind of blond that reflects the sun, soft and pure. They are speaking Dutch, rich and romantic. The mother is tall and slim, blue eyes, clear like water lapping at the shores edge. She meets the gaze of her daughter and with crystal blue eyes I can see that she loves that small child well. The child stands moving her chair closer to her mothers and then hops back up, folding her small legs underneath her delicate body, lending herself a few inches closer to the tabletop. French toast with extra powder sugar, the white sweetness smeared on her pale pink cheek. She places the raspberries from her father’s plate on the tips of each tiny finger, giggling as her dad swoops in to eat one off. The mother reaches across the table and ruffles her husband’s hair. Running her delicate fingers through the soft blond cowlick above his right eye. He takes her hand and kisses it gently, the inside of her palm and the knuckle of her middle finger. She leans her head back, letting her hair fall loose and free behind her shoulders, faming her soft face. The three of them laugh gaily; mouths open in the morning sun. I witness sixty seconds of what life is about. Someone else’s life, not my own. I turn back to my cooling coffee cup and blank pages in an open book. The sun forms shadows across the paper, fingers curled around pen, hair dancing in the wind. Alone, I open my heart to my hand and the movements of shadow and pen.