Years passed with no glimpse of you, I had to find out from friends about
the trip you took. That was years after, though I still needed your firms hands on my muscles. In my rustic brown pants I round the curve of the blood red tiled wall underground at Park Street to hear my name in your voice.
As though dug up fresh from fertile earth you stood. Though you were to depart again shortly we exchanged small tassle tied burlap bags and mouthed the words we had to say "Haven't seen you in....blah. blah" (hug) "What are you doing now...blah, blah" Despite the unease dragging on the both of us, pleasantries were spoken,
hugs executed. Did my hand linger on your shoulder? is your hair perhaps a bit redder now (God so soft)? Could we support walks on chilled streets with cold ivy shining street-light above brick? Could the fastness of autumn dement our blood? Why was it that I could never remember your face back then? (I can now, of course, now that it is etched in my
lexicon)
Like winning lottery twice, you were in the same place and I thanked whatever deity was closest for you again. The joy was tangy with uncertainty. It was colder that day, and despite new shoes my feet trembled. We sat gloriously close. After you left me on the train, I sat unquiet in the magnetic hum of
ga-ga. Flashbulbs were triggering in my brain and in tight frantic electon orbits around my head. My blood was carbonated. But I also felt ragged, knew your mission was incontrovertable, that you, here, were only temporary. I tried to find a garden to bury the box in but the streets are dense and the back yards are hidden. My arm was tired from carrying it all day. This kind of thing, this encounter,
leaves a hangover, mitigating the crushing banality of my work and endless car-time. Later we met. We talked. Tried to resolve it all, but you had to slip away.
Quite possibly you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.