Temple's Diary
A Tale of Benjamin Franklin's Family
In the Days Leading up to The American Revolution
Moonstone. That's it! That's what I have been searching for, from shop to shop. A stone that reflects the pale slate blue of her eyes, along with tiny specks of moon. Earrings that will be close to her eyes, enhancing them, dancing in the light with them.
I never thought I'd find what I wanted among all those semi-precious stones whose names and colors, aquamarine, coral, amethyst, I get all mixed up. But I did find that glorious moonstone!
I'll wait for Abigail to come out of the City Tavern; I'll be half-hidden somewhere as I usually do. I enjoy watching her turn her head this way and that, looking worried as she scans the street. And when I step out — from a different place each time — I love to see the way she lights up, all smiles and dimples, her eyelashes batting. We hasten toward the bank of the Delaware, walking a little distance from each other. I like to walk behind her to see the wind playing with the folds of her long skirt. When we get near the river we make sure there is nobody around and then we hold hands and we amble along, slowly.
I've spent my whole "mind-it-has-to-last-until-Christmas" allowance on this, but I don't care. Her joy, her arms around my neck, her stuttering "Billy...how could you..." That's all I want. For the first time in my life I have done what I wanted to do, not what I was told to do. It is a fantastic feeling. Let my father grumble if he finds out, I don't care. I'll just listen politely and savor again, behind a contrite look, this moment on the bank of the Delaware.
My apologies, History. This has nothing to do with you, my happiness with Abigail, but I just have to write it, to keep it forever. Moonstone.
History strikes back. Mentioning my father has suddenly brought back to mind what Uncle Richard told me yesterday: "Your father told a friend that the best he can do at present is to keep up the appearance of government." Father, if you could only see which way the wind is blowing. You see it, of course, but you'll keep rowing against the tide until ... until what?
