Category Archives: conversations

Deity

Her hair floated around her face,
a barely there breeze lifting
each golden strand.
It caught in the crinkles
of her laughing eyes, in her eyelashes.

This is why I hate wearing my hair down,
she said, huffing and swiping the hair
away from her face, tucking it behind
her ear. Her Earrings caught the evening sun,
and for a moment she was a goddess of old,
full of love and light, wisdom and mirth;
a deity I could happily fall to my knees for.

“I love you,” I said, breath caught somewhere
between my lungs and my mouth.
I love you, she whispered, dropping her hands
to her sides. I love you, too.

And before she could blink, I had my hands
in her hair and my lips on her smile.

Photo by Thu00e1i Huu1ef3nh on Pexels.com

Jim

What you do to pay the bills is not who you are, he said,
tipping his beer towards me and then taking
a long swig while I watched his eyes sparkle.

We ate our cake, chatting about the newly married
couple making spirals around the room, stopping
for a kiss whenever anyone clinked their glass.

Who you are is what you do in your spare time.
He scraped the icing from his plate, smiled
at his wife, and then leaned back in his chair.

So, my dear, who are you?

I didn’t know Jim well. He was the husband of one of my very good friends, Sarah Ryder. He recently passed, and I thought it fitting to share with the world the spectacular advice that he gave to me many years ago at a wedding reception. “What you do to pay the bills is not who you are. Who you are is what you do in your spare time.” Those simple sentences have stuck with me ever since. I repeat them to myself over and over on a regular basis. Jim was an absolute light and he will be missed.

Coffee Creamer

I wasn’t looking, and she added too much creamer.
I drank the coffee anyway,
the sweet liquid coating

my teeth and tongue with a layer
of slick sugar I wouldn’t be able to rid
myself of without a thorough brushing.

Her forearms tensed and flexed
as she balled her nightgown in her fists
and in her lap trying to hide the anxiety,

and I wondered how we had come to this place:
the serving coffee and being anxious
and not meeting each other’s gaze.

We need to talk, she said,
just as I was standing to leave.

I sat back down and waited.

Goldenrod and Ironweed

Why are you crying, my love?

She wiped her eyes,
sniffled her nose,
and lifted her gaze to the window
above the sink.

The goldenrod and ironweed are blooming,
she said, slipping her hands into soapy water.
The earth is settling her melancholy
deep into my bones,
unfurling her funeral flowers alongside
roads and in the low, wet places of the hills,
one last majestic sight
before fading into rust and gold.

One last burst of color to hold
during the long, bleak of winter.

That is the most poetic way I have ever heard
anyone describe their allergies, my love.