An Unexpected Home

I pictured it, a small place, true

But ceilings vaulted—Room to breathe!

Sparse, on purpose; white, and clean

The place I’d have at twenty-six

Lovers would come, Lovers would go

Visitors, too—all as I pleased

But many nights I’d sit alone

Singing, maybe, dancing, maybe

Or just being in vaulted space

A space to call my very own

Here I am many years later

Sitting within walls light yellow

Speckled with pictures, purposely

This place is small, no vaulted walls

Still there’s room for breathing, being

You, Lover, come; you, Lover, go

Not on my time—no, on our time

Some nights, I get my rendezvous

With silence, or my song and dance

And I like it.

But I too like

Your key rasping, the lock popping

Your smile peeking round the doorway

Just as calm was losing its charm

The Procession

            He walks her to the bathroom.  “This is the ladies’ room.  If there’s no toilet paper in there, come back out, okay?  I’ll make sure you get some.”  He opens the door and she shuffles inside.  He closes the door behind her.

“It can be tough when you get older!” he remarks to a young man taking notice of the conversation.

“Oh yeah,” the young man laughs, looking down at the plate.  

He waits by the door. When she emerges, he asks, “Did you wash your hands?”

She asks questions too.

“What town are we in?”

“Westport.”

“What?” She cranes her neck.

“Oh, your hearing aids are in backwards.”  With soft fingertips, he combs back her white blonde hair, takes out her hearing aids, and inserts them into the opposite ears.

“Ouch,” she says.

“Sorry.  Is that better?”  He brushes her hair back over her ears, arranging the long strands on her shoulders.  “We’re in Westport.”

“What are we doing here?”

“John and Mary are coming to meet us here.” 

“Here?  In this restaurant?”

“Yep!”  He squeezes her hand.  “You had to go to the bathroom, said you felt pressure.   So I figured it was better if they met us in Starbucks.”

“They are meeting us here?”

“Uh huh.” 

“What town are we in?”

“Westport.”

“Oh.”

He hands her a drink.  “Careful now, it’s hot!” 

She nods, staring at her cup. He leads her down an exciting array of do’s and did’s, future and past.  Mary and John… kids… looking forward to the visit… pumpkin season.  Remember twenty years ago? Those pumpkins?  This afternoon, quite the harvest… Her eyes track his lips and animated gestures.

His phone beeps.  “Change of plans. We’re meeting them at a place not far away.  Time to go, love.”  He stands and holds out his hand, which she examines and then grips.  He lifts her up and guides her forward, never rushing, ever matching her step-hold-step.

My Life is "Hard"

Remember the day

Heaven came splashing down

On rooftops, on cars?

With upturned faces, soft and dry

We looked upon it

Vulnerable to glass panes

Streaked with rage.

I opened the window

And stuck my hand outside

My, was that a doosie!

:/

I Loved Him

I loved him, was in love with him.

It’s a weird thing to say now--now that I’m, well, not. But I did. I loved him.

I loved him matter-of-factly, in a way that recognized his immediate positive attributes. “He has such a strong allegiance to family, to friends, to the idea of friendship. He is goofy yet serious, adventurous yet stable.”

I loved him abstractly, in a way that exalted his potential qualities. “He will make a good father. His dedication to work will surely result in success. If ever I became famous, how grand he would look on my arm!”

I loved him hopelessly, in a way that examined his face, his body, his lifestyle, and thought, “Me? He picks me?” A love that verged on desperation, which felt itself doomed to loss and desperately feared to lose.

I loved him egotistically, reveling in the positive qualities his shining eyes reflected back at me. Spritely, intelligent, witty, creative. “She’s a charmer, she is, the most beautiful girl in the room. Easy to be around. One stepping-stone away from screaming success.” That vision of me—I loved him for creating that. And yet…

I loved him for many reasons, but I never loved him quietly, simply, unripplingly, nor he toward me.

And that love—the soft love—never came.