Passau

     There are those girls with the handsome thighs, chittering and whispering, the sideways glance an indication that they know you are looking at them. The skin that the sun cannot blemish, soft like butter and cream.  They prance in an ebbing sun chained together with adolescent cinching, straining and breaking under the weight of the oncoming woman’s world hips. The call of  a life yet to come in a land of little resistance or want. But for now they swirl, dancing to a tune so wholesome it need be whistled sharply else the winds carry it prematurely to the land of accountability.

     The call of the river is a whisper most days and silent in the winter like death. But the screams of springtime get in a girls head and push boundaries.  She may get stuck in the eddy that takes her like a rocket to the bottom, trying to sift the mica from the silt and waking in the morning to the truth that it was not gold after all. When she resurfaces, lungs straining for one gulp of familiar air to set right, she is spit out on the tracks located at the intersection of lust and broken bones. Nostalgia floats in on the summer water and the yearning for deep rooted familiarity dances on the green surface of that Danube dream.

     There will not likely be another moment in which the girl has the time of day or the key to her identity until the butter and cream skin is patched with the scars and discolorations that show the depth of her experience. It is only then that wisdom and beauty build a bridge over that mighty current allowing one to cross with fingers in ears and a mind full of not what is right for the world, but first and foremost, what is right for her mind and soul. Some will say it can be the best part of a woman’s life, when the key is turned in that lock, but every girl cannot help to remember that sharply whistled tune and like riding a bicycle, the sideways glance from a woman is artistry that never fades.