because a Reverend can't be wrong.
There are places we go, deep in the woods, in a song, in our minds.
The movement of arms and the pulling of shirt halts the dream.
Reality snaps back in place: A soft smile under dark glasses.
A closed fist and a deep breath bring peace again. Temporarily.
Count to 10. Suddenly it almost didn’t happen.
Almost.
There will be nights where every light is out and every door is shut and locked and not a soul dare cast his eyes into the darkness in which to find you.
And there will be days where the sun shines bright and warm. Every bird will sing, and every blossom will produce the sweetest of smells released into the coolest of breezes.
And then there will be your suffering. For you will never see the transition between the two. For you, the sun will not rise nor will it set. It will simply be there until it isn’t.
Nearly every day, for exactly 7 minutes and 42 seconds, my mind is filled with the most insightful, revealing, witty, humorous, intelligent, touching thoughts, outlined in the utmost clarity. And during that time I am so taken back by the amazing and beautiful nature of this planet, the human mind, and the entire universe that I am immobilized. When it is over, my first thought is to write down what I’ve learned. Yet, my mind no longer understands and I am left with only fragments. They, too, are soon forgotten.
I was important.
I was not alone.
I had you.
I left.
I felt lonely.
I felt insignificant.
I was without you.
Looking behind me, I see
Though I was not alone,
I was lonely still.
Though I was important,
my importance was trivial.
Looking ahead, I see
I am alone,
though unlonely.
I am unknown,
thought my importance is significant.
Lonely has no opposite.
I am surrounded by clatter and commotion.
The clang-crash of pots and pans
falling from the cupboard to the floor
as I look further back.
Despite the noise, I am seeking.
The click-scrape of plastic parts
forgotten far in the back,
each corner forcing a new worry.
Despite the noise, I write while driving
because it feels good to feel.
I will teach nine years of love
followed by nine years of cunning.
And she will not be ill-equipped
As I am.
A faked smile from the girl
that makes my coffee.
I will surround myself in this.
I will absorb these beautiful things.
I will hold them close and forever
as paper sucks up ink into its fibers.
Even if they are make believe.
She’s wearing sandals and her toes are painted light blue. The sun catches her golden hair making it radiate. She’s obviously searching for something.
I take a deep breath and stop her. I’m not from here either, but, maybe I can I help you find something? “Well, I was just looking for a little cafe to sit and have a cup of coffee.” I am too, shall we look together? We laugh at the idea, our arms folded awkwardly, our eyes searching. Then we walk down the street together, laughing and talking.
I hold the door open for her. She walks in first. It’s nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but it’s ours. Our first house. Completely ours. We laugh at the sheer possibilities and end up laying side by side in a pile of undress in the middle of the living room floor, the door still open to the hallway. I get up to use the rest room.
As I enter the living room I notice she looks even more beautiful today than yesterday. Has she done something different? Is it my love for her, ever increasing? Is it our unborn child inside her? Does it even matter? I sit next to her on the couch, kiss her growing belly, and sigh a sigh of happiness and content. We sit for a moment hand in hand, words unspoken, before she heads off into the kitchen.
“Supper’s ready!” she calls out. She’s made an early dinner for just the two. Our two children still at home are off doing other things this evening. The table is decorated, candles are lit, wine is poured, and she looks as incredible to me as she did the day I met her on the street in New York City. We eat while talking about our day and playing footsie under the table. Even after all these years, her smile can still bring that burn to my chest. I clear the table after dinner as she goes to get herself ready. We’re supposed to meet my daughter and her husband later that evening. They’ve got some news for us.
I walk into the living room full of Christmas gifts. All of the grandchildren stare at me with hungry, glistening eyes knowing that Christmas doesn’t start until I begin handing out the gifts. So, of course, I take my time watching them squirm with excitement and burst with protest. We have a wonderful dinner that evening. No matter how old we get, it’s the one ritual we simply won’t give up. I love having all of them under my roof all at once. I feel complete. As the last of the family heads home I put on my coat and decide to go for a quick stroll in the evening light.
I walk down the street remember each event of my life as though it had only just occurred. Each moment leading to the next. I am so fortunate. I am so happy. I am so loved. I try to imagine it any other way and it simply doesn’t work. I make my way around the corner and begin walking along all the shops, closed for the day, when I spot another person walking toward me.
She’s wearing sandals and her toes are painted light blue. The sun catches her golden hair making it radiate. She’s obviously searching for something.
As a tourist, I’m sure I can’t help her find what she’s looking for in a place as large as New York City. I pass her with a smile on my face considering the possibilities and then wander into a cafe alone for a cup of coffee.
You were proper. Every strand of hair pulled back neatly. The bun placed perfectly at the top center of your head. Two very intentional tendrils framed your face — restrained and appropriate. Makeup applied in such a fashion that it was hard to tell it was even there. The only give away: your bright cheeks with their perfect red circles of youth. But maybe they were natural, it’s hard to tell. Your thin, blue, silk dress with an oriental pattern in a lighter shade of blue hung perfectly on your small shoulders. Unmoving, as though made to rest in just that very spot on just this very frame. Your arms gracefully folded about your small waist — hovering over your capable hips. Hips not too narrow and not too wide. Just enough to hint at the children you would some day mother. Temperate and innocent. The dress ended conservatively below your knees. Your shoes were black and attractive, yet sensible and adult. As you walked the outline of your thick muscled legs was visible with each advance; The legs of a gymnast, perhaps. As you passed me I noticed, hidden under so many perfect, calculated layers, the shape of your small, left breast — unsupported and bouncing tightly with each quick, short, deliberate step.
In this moment.
The weight of my mistakes
presses heavy on my chest
cracking my ribs
and the shoulders of another.
My throat thickens with tears
unshed for fear of not being caught
and kissed away.
One million fucking questions
and not a single answer.
No solutions. No alternatives.
Alone I stand left wanting.
In this moment
I remember what I left
in the back of a drawer
682 days ago and I realize
I will always be an addict.
the pipes and tunnels of life and sewage
overlap under the skin of our hearts and cities.
quiet. unnoticed.
until something breaks, bubbling up to the surface.
friends and city planners will proclaim
no one saw it coming!
it happened all of a sudden!
loved ones and mayors will rejoice
as the flooding stops
the pipes are mended
and the skin is restored
leaving only a small scar
that will fade in time.
yet still unseen under the skin
are the small cracks and leaks.
the empty, rusted pipes
that lead to the next
unpredictable eruption.
We were a corn field dressed in fall colors;
Each beautiful, vivid, trembling leaf
a glorious indication of the cold end.
We burned our safe green hues at one another.
One last display of Yellow, and Red
and deep, deep, Orange.
All of our secrets clearly visible in the veins
that held our various colors together.
And our eyes never closed
for fear of missing anything.
We gave everything we had
knowing we’d have nothing left to give.
Burnt up, our exteriors became stiff and brittle
as quickly as our now darkened leaves once burned
from innocent green to the hottest of yellows.
The winds blew and we fell
down, down, down to lay
cold on the the earthen floor of winter.