We nudge the sand with bare toes as a dog trots past, soft bright eyes framed by wispy eyelashes. "Like the fallen ones we used to blow away to make a wish." Sunlight glints off your pointing finger as this afternoon too passes into silence. "Do you still do that?" we ask one another. "Wish?" On another day grown cloudy with time, a detail will emerge —a dog streaking by silver water, a soft unison of "yes"— that catches us unawares, startled by the grace with which the past re-configures itself: wish for it to come back and it will.
Maybelle and Roy snuggled outside the arena after watching a very different rodeo than what they remembered. The bronc riders had longer eyelashes than the broncs, and the bull riders had bigger nose rings than the bulls. There was also vegan chili Roy said he wouldn’t feed to his own worst dog-enemy. They leaned into each other’s soft plump skin-suits even years of range life apart couldn’t harden. Roy promised they’d meet elsewhere next time.
“It’s fine,” Maybelle winked, “besides, these kids stay on longer than eight seconds”.
“A lot can happen in eight seconds,” Roy popped the blue pill.
Wispy clouds sailed over the soft sand. The bright sunshine felt warm.
“Thank you for meeting me here today,” said Sheila quietly.
“It’s been a while,” replied Rick. “I have missed the conversations. The silence has left an empty place in my world.” He paused looking past her eyelashes to the promise of what once was. “Why are we here?”
“I was hoping we could pick up the conversations once more. I too have felt a void since we parted.”
“We can’t return to the past, only forge new roads.”
“I can live with that,” replied Sheila with a smile.
We meet in Central Park. It’s been decades. You bring a pipe. We smoke a bowl. I watch you inhale, exhale, all soft, and wispy. Me, I cough for old time’s sake. I taste sands of promise. You smell deceit. A clown with a bright smile is juggling towards us. He takes a tumble. I whisper, don’t laugh, but still, you explode. We run like teenagers our mouths full of cotton. Stop. Catch our breath at the bandshell. Behind it hides a pergola where the wisteria blooms lavender. It’s where we burn each other’s secrets. Where we scatter the ashes.
Secret Garden
We nudge the sand with bare toes as a dog trots past, soft bright eyes framed by wispy eyelashes. "Like the fallen ones we used to blow away to make a wish." Sunlight glints off your pointing finger as this afternoon too passes into silence. "Do you still do that?" we ask one another. "Wish?" On another day grown cloudy with time, a detail will emerge —a dog streaking by silver water, a soft unison of "yes"— that catches us unawares, startled by the grace with which the past re-configures itself: wish for it to come back and it will.
It All Flies By
Maybelle and Roy snuggled outside the arena after watching a very different rodeo than what they remembered. The bronc riders had longer eyelashes than the broncs, and the bull riders had bigger nose rings than the bulls. There was also vegan chili Roy said he wouldn’t feed to his own worst dog-enemy. They leaned into each other’s soft plump skin-suits even years of range life apart couldn’t harden. Roy promised they’d meet elsewhere next time.
“It’s fine,” Maybelle winked, “besides, these kids stay on longer than eight seconds”.
“A lot can happen in eight seconds,” Roy popped the blue pill.
Wispy clouds sailed over the soft sand. The bright sunshine felt warm.
“Thank you for meeting me here today,” said Sheila quietly.
“It’s been a while,” replied Rick. “I have missed the conversations. The silence has left an empty place in my world.” He paused looking past her eyelashes to the promise of what once was. “Why are we here?”
“I was hoping we could pick up the conversations once more. I too have felt a void since we parted.”
“We can’t return to the past, only forge new roads.”
“I can live with that,” replied Sheila with a smile.
Where the Wisteria Blooms Lavendar
We meet in Central Park. It’s been decades. You bring a pipe. We smoke a bowl. I watch you inhale, exhale, all soft, and wispy. Me, I cough for old time’s sake. I taste sands of promise. You smell deceit. A clown with a bright smile is juggling towards us. He takes a tumble. I whisper, don’t laugh, but still, you explode. We run like teenagers our mouths full of cotton. Stop. Catch our breath at the bandshell. Behind it hides a pergola where the wisteria blooms lavender. It’s where we burn each other’s secrets. Where we scatter the ashes.