Petty, Prose and Plumeria

Brittany Beltram
Sep 5, 2018 · 2 min read

August is an afterthought, only the plants are privy to nature’s seasonal shift. It is noon and the winds are shifting. The plumeria rubra turns its branches towards the sun.

Blooms at the ready, appearing like an exotically emblazoned debutant. She aches for her entrance, standing tall, her flowering lips a shade shy of fire and two tones past blush. Petals soft and whimsical, the wind carries her sweet whispers, that beckon the bees.

The season’s carnage is laying in a sand-saddled wait. I’m a patient sweeper, with time and a meditative mind. Broom strokes become melodically brisk, tunes trail the wind from the house next door. Tom Petty’s “Don’t Do Me Like That”, plays from an opened door.

There’s a stroller in the doorway, draped in cloth, a swaddled babe inside. He’s being lulled and soothed by good vibrations. I am too, my broom strokes increase; the creases of my face elevating in turn.

We rise together- me, the babe and broom, to a vibrational language we all speak.

Inside, is a weary-eyed mother, two more toe-headed boys in tow, each one balanced on a foot that moves to the music.

Broken communication is all we know, in the land of sand with expats aplenty. We are all together, yet we are alone.

Perspective is a polarizing pier we walk on. The water’s reflections are of what home life was like, with no mirrored concept of how it’s now supposed to ‘be’: we search for the familiar.

“Refugee” begins to play, the wind whirls the leaves and debris. The desert’s benevolence of beige tundra, whips in a whirlpool-like motion, causing a heat inspired soft focus gaze.

“And revel in your abandon

Honey, it don’t make no difference to me, baby

Everybody’s had to fight to be free”

A silent war of displacement despondency continues.

The music plays on.

Brittany Beltram
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