Tales of Italy

Last night I took a walk along the shore to visit the guy from down the shore.  With the cottages now closed for the fall and coming winter, the only light to help guide my way was the dim light of the half moon, half hidden behind the towering trees along the south shore.

As I walked through the darkness, I recalled the 6'8" football player, who insisted I hold his hand as we walked the same shore.  He claimed to be scared.  He wasn't, but I held his hand anyway.  That was when I was in high school - 8 years before another guy used the same line on me. 

It was much darker out than I had anticipated, and wondered if I should have brought a flashlight with me.  But as I walked, I grew in confidence.  I knew the shore well.  I had walked and jogged the same route so many times before that such assistance wasn't necessary. 

About a quarter mile down, I finally came to a lit cottage.  I walked up the stairs to the yellow and white cottage.  The guy from the down the shore welcomed me in and I joined him for conversation in front of the fire place. 

I felt like I was in a book.  Because his cottage should be in a book - with its wicker furniture, and cottage smell, and fireplace.  And he and I would make for good characters - except the book would want some sort of romance to evolve between us, but he and I aren't romantically compatible.  Not because he isn't attractive, because he is, but rather, because we view life too differently. 

As he smoked his cigarettes and told me tales of Italy, I envied his approach to life.  Because he seemed so carefree and content.  Nothing really seemed to get to him.  And I considered how wonderful it must be to not care, but rather to simply enjoy life and to be.  The problem is, I can't - at least not for extended periods of time.  Because with the faith I hold I have to care about the world and the people around me.