HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY
Richmond, Virginia. What an incredible place. She couldn’t have landed in a better city. She had arrived, young and busy with her life as it was, and her new career. She was cognizant now of how much richer her life was for having moved to Virginia, full of history and tradition. And Richmond was a special place. Swift, fertile waters flowed down the James River and overlooking the James, she had stumbled upon a cemetery only realizing after she had entered its gates and meandered through its narrow lanes the significance of what lay buried in that hallowed ground.
Big, old trees, lush and full of foliage in the summer, stark in the winter still offering shelter to those who lay or visited beneath. And by the number of weathered monuments nestled in Hollywood Cemetery, it’s curves and undulations were no impediment to the efforts of men intent on burying long, angular objects.
She had found this a place of refuge, refuge from the noise and the city kissing its gates, getting as close as it possibly could to the boundary defining what lay within. She felt release once inside its protective pillars. The sights and sounds of a verdant summer soothed her, especially in this place. As she moved with the rise and fall of its hills, she paused occasionally to make sense of the information gathering around her. In some instances, this much information would have become overwhelming and interfered with her ability to take it all in, but in this place she was able to screen out the distractions of the competing noise, and focus. Sometimes she would be so focused, when she looked up she had lost track of how she got where she was. But she had given herself permission to separate from reality: to be apart from it. To be her own island, as she often thought we were, in spite of the phrase, “No man is an island.”
And on this day, in this island refuge, the island found herself on an island, where beneath her lay Joseph and Elizabeth. Joseph, a brave Confederate soldier safely returned from the war, was a lucky man to have been excluded from the clique of 18,000 of his fellow Confederate soldiers who lay quietly there. Elizabeth was grateful he had returned from the war: she loved Joe and wanted him to be with her for a long time yet. They had some unfinished business to deal with that had been interrupted by the war. Interrupted by the great war of the United States that would decide where the center of power would reside: at least where political and economic power would be focused until the 21st century when retiring baby boomers and newcomers would congregate, south of the cold climate, in warmer places, friendlier to aging bones and minds.
But Liz lived in the here and now, dealing with life as it had been given her, unconscious it would one day be part of history. It was Lizzie’s love of life that enabled her to embrace it and Joseph with a zest and passion unusual for a woman born in her time. She had learned to trust Joe and to trust herself loving him. Her connection to him had given her permission to live life to its fullest. Their relationship had given both of them a freedom they would not have had otherwise. Lizzie was free to acknowledge needing him, and wanting him to be close to her. She looked forward to the evenings when she would lie next to him and start feeling the rush between her legs when she reached over to touch him, his body hot on a cold winter’s night.
And sometimes when he wasn’t spent from the day’s tasks, he reached out to her and used his arms to pull her closer to him, bridging the gap between the male and female anatomy. And through cotton gowns, they embraced curves and undulations normally unnoticed, unmentioned. After they kissed and pressed closer to each other, the bedcovers weighed down on them so they flung them off, using their feet to push them to the end of the bed, no longer an impediment to bridging the gap. She felt the need to have her arms and legs wrapped around him and feel the weight of his body press down on her, pinning her to the bed.
After awhile when he had pulled her on top of him and her head began to sway back and forth close to his, she whispered softly in his ear how much she wanted, and needed him. He could hear the lustiness in her breath and he buried himself deeper inside her, getting as close to her as any person ever could save her own offspring borne in her womb. Her words, her actions showed him a woman who wanted him, wanted him because she needed him as a man, loving him for all it meant. She was grateful for his strengths and nurtured his shortcomings, biding her time until either he changed, or she accepted she was living with all of him.
And Joe was free to express himself with her, to freely demonstrate his gratitude for being loved by her they way he was. He knew of many husbands and wives who merely tolerated each other. But the love she shared gave him cause to love her even more. This type of love was seductive, seducing him each time anew. Each time he lay with her, he had a heightened awareness of her silken skin and her lips soft as rose petals, sweet as honey. He couldn’t get enough of her: It was only his sense of responsibility that stopped him from spending sleepless nights buried in her curves and undulations, worshipping her as a goddess, laying prostrate at Venus’s altar. She sensed he was mesmerized by her, only serving to intensify the lustiness they shared.
In the daylight hours, when society was busy with its busyness, their eyes would meet and they would reconnect with what they shared between the sheets. This was foreplay for them: knowing they would lie together, entwined in each other’s arms and other appendages, caressing curves and undulations, exploring crevices, nooks and crannies. By the time they got horizontal, there was little left to do except meld and enjoy each other, Lizzie and Joe lying together.
Shaded by the branches of the old tree, she gazed out over the rolling hills of Hollywood Cemetery and mused about what other wonders lay secret and hidden. This much she knew: This island was a testimonial to the love of a man and woman now quiet, well over a century after they lay wrapped in each others arms, spent and exhausted from their lusty conquest over society’s attempt to dictate how they ought to be when they lay naked together on their bed.
Big, old trees, lush and full of foliage in the summer, stark in the winter still offering shelter to those who lay or visited beneath. And by the number of weathered monuments nestled in Hollywood Cemetery, it’s curves and undulations were no impediment to the efforts of men intent on burying long, angular objects.
She had found this a place of refuge, refuge from the noise and the city kissing its gates, getting as close as it possibly could to the boundary defining what lay within. She felt release once inside its protective pillars. The sights and sounds of a verdant summer soothed her, especially in this place. As she moved with the rise and fall of its hills, she paused occasionally to make sense of the information gathering around her. In some instances, this much information would have become overwhelming and interfered with her ability to take it all in, but in this place she was able to screen out the distractions of the competing noise, and focus. Sometimes she would be so focused, when she looked up she had lost track of how she got where she was. But she had given herself permission to separate from reality: to be apart from it. To be her own island, as she often thought we were, in spite of the phrase, “No man is an island.”
And on this day, in this island refuge, the island found herself on an island, where beneath her lay Joseph and Elizabeth. Joseph, a brave Confederate soldier safely returned from the war, was a lucky man to have been excluded from the clique of 18,000 of his fellow Confederate soldiers who lay quietly there. Elizabeth was grateful he had returned from the war: she loved Joe and wanted him to be with her for a long time yet. They had some unfinished business to deal with that had been interrupted by the war. Interrupted by the great war of the United States that would decide where the center of power would reside: at least where political and economic power would be focused until the 21st century when retiring baby boomers and newcomers would congregate, south of the cold climate, in warmer places, friendlier to aging bones and minds.
But Liz lived in the here and now, dealing with life as it had been given her, unconscious it would one day be part of history. It was Lizzie’s love of life that enabled her to embrace it and Joseph with a zest and passion unusual for a woman born in her time. She had learned to trust Joe and to trust herself loving him. Her connection to him had given her permission to live life to its fullest. Their relationship had given both of them a freedom they would not have had otherwise. Lizzie was free to acknowledge needing him, and wanting him to be close to her. She looked forward to the evenings when she would lie next to him and start feeling the rush between her legs when she reached over to touch him, his body hot on a cold winter’s night.
And sometimes when he wasn’t spent from the day’s tasks, he reached out to her and used his arms to pull her closer to him, bridging the gap between the male and female anatomy. And through cotton gowns, they embraced curves and undulations normally unnoticed, unmentioned. After they kissed and pressed closer to each other, the bedcovers weighed down on them so they flung them off, using their feet to push them to the end of the bed, no longer an impediment to bridging the gap. She felt the need to have her arms and legs wrapped around him and feel the weight of his body press down on her, pinning her to the bed.
After awhile when he had pulled her on top of him and her head began to sway back and forth close to his, she whispered softly in his ear how much she wanted, and needed him. He could hear the lustiness in her breath and he buried himself deeper inside her, getting as close to her as any person ever could save her own offspring borne in her womb. Her words, her actions showed him a woman who wanted him, wanted him because she needed him as a man, loving him for all it meant. She was grateful for his strengths and nurtured his shortcomings, biding her time until either he changed, or she accepted she was living with all of him.
And Joe was free to express himself with her, to freely demonstrate his gratitude for being loved by her they way he was. He knew of many husbands and wives who merely tolerated each other. But the love she shared gave him cause to love her even more. This type of love was seductive, seducing him each time anew. Each time he lay with her, he had a heightened awareness of her silken skin and her lips soft as rose petals, sweet as honey. He couldn’t get enough of her: It was only his sense of responsibility that stopped him from spending sleepless nights buried in her curves and undulations, worshipping her as a goddess, laying prostrate at Venus’s altar. She sensed he was mesmerized by her, only serving to intensify the lustiness they shared.
In the daylight hours, when society was busy with its busyness, their eyes would meet and they would reconnect with what they shared between the sheets. This was foreplay for them: knowing they would lie together, entwined in each other’s arms and other appendages, caressing curves and undulations, exploring crevices, nooks and crannies. By the time they got horizontal, there was little left to do except meld and enjoy each other, Lizzie and Joe lying together.
Shaded by the branches of the old tree, she gazed out over the rolling hills of Hollywood Cemetery and mused about what other wonders lay secret and hidden. This much she knew: This island was a testimonial to the love of a man and woman now quiet, well over a century after they lay wrapped in each others arms, spent and exhausted from their lusty conquest over society’s attempt to dictate how they ought to be when they lay naked together on their bed.
posted by Venus at 6:04 PM
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