THE MAGIC BICYCLE

 

Twilight.

Not quite night.  Not quite day.

A time for magic.

The last light caught the gleam of handlebars.

A bicycle tossed away.

 

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Painted white, adorned with flowers and tassels,  it stands outside my bedroom window.

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I rode it once.

Only the once.

Now  the wheels refuse to move.

Late that night when the moon was a silver goblet I heard the sound of bicycle wheels spinning swiftly down the drive-way.

 

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Morning.

I discovered it had returned.

An old newspaper lay discarded in the basket.

Perfumed with the aroma of coffee and croissants.

The following night the sound of wheels slipping away into the darkness awoke me.

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In the morning the basket contained a rose and a discarded ticket.

They had met at the Louvre.

He had given her a rose.

And, so it went.

Night after the whisper of wheels.

Each morning I would find a remembrance  in the basket.

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An envelope used to scratch a note.

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A crumpled menu.

Hands reaching across the table.

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She read to him until the darkness closed the words.

 

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Around her neck he fastened the velvet ribbon.

Her face as lovely as the cameo she wore.

 

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The music – their glorious music of  love.

Tristan and Isolde  – a medieval romantic tale of  love – tragic love.

 

 

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This morning a blue rose was fastened to the white bicycle.

An empty bottle of wine and two glasses filled the basket.

 

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That night I had a dream

Of two people in love.

In the morning the basket held a   scrap of paper with four words.

Au revoir mon ami.

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Attached to note was a tiny heart.

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When I turned to look the bicycle was gone.

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15 thoughts on “THE MAGIC BICYCLE

    • Do you remember the summer I painted the bicycle white? I always knew there was a story there, but until I made the flamboyant slipcover for the saddle seat I didn’t know what the story was all about. Don’t you just love stories with happy endings Donna Hall.
      XX Ginia

  1. What a beautiful story………Wager (or as we call him Vagner) would dance with his Mathilde in the moonlight should he read this most magical and beautiful story. I felt as if I were lying in a meadow at the break of day with flower petals drifting over me. Such elegance and romance in your words. Go give Lar a big kiss, my goodness that man is married to a goddess!

    • I keep telling him that I am goddess T.M but he just shakes his climbing rack at me – the shiny carabiners, cams and runners clink and clank to his mountain dance. But this is the man who tells me not to sweep up the flower petals or take angels out of the house or thinks it is ridiculous to paint a bike white and make slipcovers for the seat. So – yes I will give my Lar a big kiss. XXOO V.

    • T.M. as you have probably realized I weave much of my life into my tall tales of imagination. Lar and I are mad opera buffs. Tristan and Isodle is his favorite opera. Mine is Gounoud’s Faust. His favorite aria is the friendship duet “Aufond du Temple Saint” from the Pearl Fishers. Mine is the flower duet “Soies le dome epais” from Lake. It gives us much to delight to put one those CD’s on and crank the music so it fills the house. Good we live in the country. V.

    • So Letizia … the next time you walk down a country road and catch a glimmer of shiny handle-bars – take the bike home. Paint it white. Jazz up the seat and hang a basket from the handle. Who knows what glorious goodies will come your way. Virginia

      • I will!

        And in the meantime, I will look in the basket of my own bicycle every morning….. It’s not white, but who knows? 🙂

  2. What a story, Virginia. Again, they’re like mini-films. Goose bumps. “Hands reaching across the table. She read to him until the darkness closed the words.” Haunting. I love the souvenirs and tassels, too. I also love your stories about Lar. Now do angels live inside or outside?! T.
    (And speaking of films, I remembered a snippet of Wagner’s Tristan and Isodle playing not so softly in one of Hitchcock’s early films. I did a little cinematic investigative work. So YES. During a key scene in Hitchcock’s 1930 film “Murder,” an orchestra performed “live” on the set. At the time, post-dubbing was not an option.)

    • Now it has been a while since I saw Hitchcock’s Murder. (we love the old black and white flicks), but I am going to check this out. As to Lar and the Angels. The story goes. I had this paper-mache putti. Over the years I painted the little darling various colours. One year white rubbed with gray – another year painted gold – and so on. At various times he hung on the front door at Christmas time or over the fire-place. Once he spent a whole year admiring himself in my bedroom mirror. I was doing a purge of a few bits and bobs around the house and taking them to our little Thrift Shop. Lar was unloading the car and he saw the putti amongst the goods. He put it back into the Volvo. “Angels don’t leave our house.” says he. Tears started running down my cheeks. “Of course” I thought. “That is why he completes me.” The putti now hangs in my “French Bathroom”…. as told in my blog “I have a little house in Paris. XXX V.

    • All I need is a bicycle that doesn’t mysteriously travel away at night. So far we have had a remarkable six days without rain. For us that is the beginning of a beautiful summer. V.

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