The song “Unwritten” could have taken me in so many different directions. My brain threw idea after idea in such fast succession, I was spinning. When I figuratively tumbled to the ground, I got up to this thought. So here you go: my response to the song prompt “Unwritten.”
by Fay Moore (c) 2012
“A free day,” she thinks aloud. “It’s mine. I can do as I wish.”
This day is a gift from her spouse. There is no one to answer to and no obligations to meet. Her husband has taken the kids to the water park. From there, they will go to his sister’s for hot dogs on the grill. The cousins will play until exhausted. Then, her husband promised all the children he would chaperone a backyard sleepover. He will pitch a tent and try to settle four children to get some sleep.
“Better him than me,” she says to herself.
What will she do? The private time is uncommon. She, the maker of lists and long-range plans, hasn’t considered a free day a possibility in her life; she finds herself without a schedule.
She stands at her bathroom window and looks out over her tiny private courtyard. It is surrounded by high hedges of forsythia and rose of Sharon so dense than no one can peer through it. Seized by inspiration, she strips off her clothing. She self-consciously slips out the back door.
It is a hot and muggy morning. Donning the pair of garden gloves she left on the back porch, she methodically weeds the flower beds planted in front of the hedgerow. Beyond the bushes, she hears the sounds of street traffic. She feels each wisp of breeze tickle the fine hairs on her skin. Small goosebumps rise and fall with each zephyr. The consciousness of her own integument amazes her.
Suddenly, a man’s voice startles her. Instinctively, she uses her gloved hands to cover her breasts and pubic area. Then she hears a woman answer the man. She follows their voices along the sidewalk outside of her sanctuary. She drops her hands to her sides, relieved, and laughs softly. She realizes she is, indeed, safe from prying eyes. Emboldened, she continues her naked gardening until the weeds are gone and she glistens with perspiration.
She pulls the sprinkler from its cubbyhole and attaches it to the end of the hose she has extended to the center of the courtyard. She turns on the spigot. Then, she dances in the water exuberantly to the music playing in her head. The music’s rhythms adjust to the oscillation of the sprinkler.
When her lips begin to turn blue, she shuts off the water and goes into the house. Her skin and hair are dripping, creating rivulets on the hardwood floor. In her spontaneity, she forgets to plan for drying herself. Soppy footprints punctuate her passage through the hall.
Dried and dressed, her hair wrapped atop her head in a towel, she is refreshed. She glances at the clock. It’s 9:52 A.M.
What is the agenda for the day? She doesn’t care that it is still unwritten.