by Dylan Darroch

Created on: February 13, 2011   Last Updated: May 01, 2011

Henrietta

Do past feelings exist beyond words, random images, and scents let’s not forget scents? Memories and scenes; images from the past, pictures coming to life within our consciousness for but a brief scintillating moment; psychic flash powder ignited then extinguished back to words again; “I was once beautiful.”, “I was once the pride of the unit.”, “Boy when I was your age could I throw a ball.”

 Though I guess, there are times when words lead to pictures, and thoughts and smells all become one. We are left questioning existence; fleeting, and beauty; ephemeral. Still such subjects are far too great for me to ponder. But I remember that within my past I knew beauty, and passion burned. Now I’m left asking myself if those past elations, sensations still exist; somewhere some how like spirits in the night, or if they have been extinguished to nothing more than words in the dictionary of my ever aging mind and simple memories of the way we felt.

I was living and studying abroad, learning language and studying psychology in its modern birthplace, Austria. This was years back before my marriage, family, before my return to America; while I was half virile young man and half shy humble boy. Austria’s rolling hills and countryside were dotted with Bavarian farmhouses well suited for fairytale books; reminding me of what life must have been like in the past. And beyond the land and cityscapes lay beauty I had never before encountered.

Her name was Henrietta. A simple girl working the till at an over priced gas station during the night and studying drama during the day. Her hair was bright red and her eyes dark green. We made each others acquaintance as I was paying for the gas I had just finished pumping. I think I made a joke, something about the price of petrol.  Boy did Europe’s high price for fuel always trouble me. But our eyes met and passion, at least in me, was ignited. Not to say that the fuels to my fire were lacking in those days, quite to the contrary. But with Henrietta something was different.

It wasn’t difficult to bring forth the passion from within Henrietta; she was brimming with it in every movement and gesture. European girls have their European ways and American boys have their ways too I guess. But we started dating and before long the flames of passion raged like the wood heated furnaces warming Austrian countryside homes, leaving the taste of tangerine lipstick

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