Loss

Loss

In the gray half open eye period prior to

full alert status I feel a touch or maybe an

outstretched limb, a phantom connection

I may remember. Warm and wanting..

Delaying the awakening I dwell there

In hopeful desire among my fresh sheets,

memories of sun fragrant and salt drying,

my fingers on your chest, lightly, sensing

your heart which in these dreams is

still faithful to us, your family.

Love

                                                         

Maybe it’s been four weeks but it would be hard to say precisely as time has stopped being a way to manage her day. The emails started out of the blue with a Facebook message. She didn’t remember “friending” him but he said she did. He seemed intimate yet she couldn’t recall a time when they had actually spoken. They had never touched and she had no idea of the color of his eyes or the shape of his earlobes: both things she remembered when love died.

Initially the emails were very ordered on his part. Being a banker this was not surprising. Paragraphs, indentations, capitalizations and your basic words, nothing interesting for her to ponder the meaning of.

She wrote back in flourishes just as she moved through life feeling that it was too hard to be anyone other than herself. Sometimes she did wonder if he understood and as time went on she thought he must.

The emails came now every other day. Then every day. Then twice a day and now began with “Dearest”.

They met over a Zoom call. He seemed smaller and quieter and would have spoken constantly about the distant shore if she hadn’t asked him if he lived with another woman. His eyes barely moved while his mouth talked about his life, his schedule, his love of a boy and in only a few words she saw how lost he was.

It really didn’t disappoint her. She had known it all along. For a time the romance of it like a sparkly veil over her eyes felt so pleasant she began to use it to shut out the world. Inside, under the veil, was the happy child waiting to be cherished. It felt so very good, so warm and so hopeful.

Safe

Maybe

 

  Soon Enough

 

It is dark nearly all of the time.

People have forgotten the feel of water.

Lifetimes have shortened

Partners are assigned

The dictionary has been revised.

So many words no longer exist,

Joy, Hope, Heart ,Listen, Compassion,

Friendship, Cookie, Sunshine, Language

Touch

The past disappeared so rapidly that

history

Forgot to transcribe itself.

There are no more Buddhists.

It’s tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Bing Cherry

 

The Bing cherry is named after Seth Lewelling’s Manchurian orchard foreman and friend, Bing. Bing was over 7 feet tall. The Rainier cherry, named after Washington State’s famous volcanic peak, was created in 1952 by cross-breeding the Bing and Van varieties.

Wikipedia

 

 

 

Yesterday I ate the last cherry in the white bowl on the varnished wood counter

In my warm kitchen.

It sat there in the bowl, shiny, impervious to dust, all afternoon staring up at me like a disemboweled eye.

Why did someone name the cherry Bing?

after a 7 foot tall Manchurian, a candidate for the forgotten man?

In my mouth the cherry felt like a vulnerable marble: warm not cold and very round yet porous; wondrous, and intimate: impossible for an explorer to resist. I pierced the shell of the cherry with my one Wisdom tooth and tasted through my teeth the sweet and the bitter, surprising youth and pungent old age. Holding it all under my tongue slowly moving the pieces I wondered was there anything else so delicious on earth as the last bite of anything on earth?

Bing Cherries

The Best Memory

                                   The Best Memory

 

 

The best Fall I remember happened outside of Paris due

north near Chambord in November maybe October’s

when the Beaujolais Nouveau was released along with

me…I walked out

the door of the inn we stayed in

while you drank with our host.

I wandered following troughs of wet leaves marking

the crusades and the dark fall  all yellow

smelling of dank and my life as an

obedient pathfinder Joan of Arc

wanting you to worry I was lost

yet  knowing you never would.

Hours later I reluctantly returned just as I used

to at 8 and still no one noticed.

I think we made love that night

as we usually did but the bed was small, you

said, as you moved across the parquet floor

to the adjacent one

and closer to your children across the

Atlantic and I imagined

us leaving in the morning croissants uncurled

and me dressed in black because you said it was

best and before I knew it we were back in

California and you were married again

yet I was still outside of Paris in November

in 1996 longing for something I had felt

for a brief moment but never again.