I found a twenty-five year old storage bag. Filled with old photos and old letters. I went through them, one by one. Each photo showed me a stranger, who lived and now he was myth and tale. I found some letters from my Italian beauty Marcella.
So sad, I forgot her name and her face. 27 years ago, she was my muse, my wish in Monterey. We had California, we had free days and we didn’t want to own anything.
“I remember you my beautiful Marcella, I remember my barefoot honey who love to dance with the Pacific, who love to drink the tequila and loved to be kissed my California sun.
I showed her Big Sur, the River Inn. I remembered she lay nude by the Pfiefer beach and she asked me. Johnnie , is the soldier life, the life for the poet? Please find something to do, you love.”
I remember I caressed her legs, her stomach and her face. I told her, men are foolish. Seeking things, they do not need. Dear Marcella, I know already. Life is seconds, minutes and hours. We must cherish the sweet ones.
She kissed me a thousand times and we danced for the sea every night for 30 days. She was my Gypsy lady and I was her wandering soldier.
We danced with the street poets in Santa Cruz and we danced and sang songs to the wild sea in San Francisco. She told me, San Francisco shall be our city. I remember we drank many different beers at the taverns and we slept in the bed of my truck in the city, that never sleep, San Francisco.
Today old man read the letters, touched the faces in the photos. he whispered.
Dear Marcella, thank you for showing me, life was more than me, thank you for showing me, I knew how to laugh and how to dance. I pray you found joy and happiness, I do remember you. You were a gift of beauty, I shall not forget.