Come Away With Me

He showed up on her doorstep in the afternoon, when the sky was still blue and his smile was still new, and said, “Come away with me.” So, she went.

            They ran in the grass still warm from the sun. She bought a white balloon and it bobbed behind her as they ran hand in hand. She broke away from him, running faster and faster, her dress billowing around her tanned legs and her hair coming loose in the breeze, until she came to the shore of the lake, breathless.

            By the crystal blue waves, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “Come away with me.” But she put her finger to his lips and said, “Not yet.” Then she ran away with her white balloon tightly in her hand.

            He showed up on her doorstep in the night, when the sky was filled with stars and his smile was still new, and said, “Come away with me.” So, she went.

            They ran through the forest illuminated in the moonlight. She picked a white rose and nestled it in her dark curls as they ran hand in hand. She broke away from him, running faster and faster, the white ribbon in her hair fluttering behind her ponytail and her hair coming loose in the breeze, until she collapsed on a mossy rock, breathless.

            On the cool forest floor, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “Come away with me.” But she put her finger to his lips and said, “Not yet.” Then she ran away with her white rose being jostled loose from her hair.

            He showed up on her doorstep in the early morning, when the sky was filled with clouds and his smile was still new, and said, “Come away with me.” So, she went.

            They ran through the rain cascading in the chilly air. She brought her white umbrella and took shelter beneath it as they ran hand in hand. She broke away from him, running faster and faster, her white rain coat flapping about her arms and her hair coming loose in the breeze, until she stopped under a street lamp, breathless.

            Beneath the golden light, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “Come away with me.” But she put her finger to his lips and said, “Not yet.” Then she ran away with her umbrella almost flying out of her hands.

            He showed up at the train station at dusk, when the world was gray and his smile so old, and yet so new. Her small, white ticket was held tight in her hand, but she did not run. Her old, white dress hung limply over her knees and her hair was tied back tight.

            On the cold, concrete bench, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “Come away with me.” Her ticket fluttered to the ground and, with his hand in hers, she went.

~Ruth Key