I was at our first place today.
The garden we made was a mess, the pathway pebbles strewn about.
Bricks in the wavy wall were all out of their stacks
And dandelions dangled in the unmulched squalor.
What a pile of dirt your mother brought
That you raked out and planted,
I contained,
And dotted with sprinklers for the absent rain.
Was it for nought? No, not.
Fond memories fare well amid the rot.

Ice cream from your hand on my glasses
gives the springtime sun a soft focus.
The look beneath your long lashes is far away
then suddenly again, right here
as you dip into your gooey cup and make another smear.

Your mom posted photos of you this morning. They were good to see.
They made my eyes fill with tears and my heart hurt.
A friend had posted a piece about old photos on her blog, and I read that next
while Jamie Cullum played and sang, “Love ain’t gonna let you down no more” in my kitchen.
I wonder what your downstream will be, how you’ll get back to see the banks you’re playing on today.
I hope someone saves a dusty shoebox for you, for your spirit to sometimes hop in and ride,
against the current, against the tide.

I had a few words with a person I’ll call an “advisor” today. Not my shrink; that was yesterday. (I need a lot of advice, so I have people.)

Here’s what he said (advisor, not psychologist): “Here’s your assignment for this week. It’s to not have an opinion on anything.” He said that!

Of course, he knows that’s like asking a cat to swim. I have an opinion on everything, including your footwear. Especially your footwear.

I may have to stay in the house for a week. That can’t be healthy, right? It’s springtime, and the ornamental cherries are snowing all up and down my street. People are wearing flipflops. I have strong opinions about flipflops, and men in madras.

I did recently promise to not be contrarian, TFN. I had to N pretty quickly, though. Probably after going to Whole Foods, or reading a tweet about pancakes, which makes me respond without thinking, “pancakes are not food.” But that isn’t opinion; it’s fact.

So this will be harder. Maybe I need to call and get some clarification on this assignment.

I have some thoughts on it.

I polished your cufflinks –

the ones in onyx, with BW in script,

knight heads in helmets, and peridot chips.

Did mom ever take a toothbrush to your tie bars,

or breathe on your bracelet and buff it

then hand to you to wear it?

They’re shiny, now.

I did them.

They were so dusty I swear I could smell it.

I’ll bet you’d laugh at what I was doing

since men don’t pierce double-windsors with pins anymore,

wear tiger-eye rings or keep a pocket-knife handy.

They’re drying on a towel in the kitchen.

Your box was so musty that sunlight wouldn’t cure it,

so I had to pitch it.

I guess it’s time for a new one, now

for someone else to rattle someday, look inside,

turn the tap and rinse away the grime.

She said on the phone as we made the impromptu appointment, “I’m feeling like hell, and looking it.” She seemed bubbly enough to me.

The art was good. There was a very nice painting of goldfish. Another of birds. I liked both, the birds more. She liked the goldfish more, so I bought it.

The venue was a part of town over near the baseball stadium. There’s a great old warehouse-y type building next door. We walked over because she wanted me to see it. There was an old rack where workers once put their timecards. Each slot had a little card with its number printed on it, all yellowed and faded like manila. She gave me number 2444.

The night was warm and fine, with a glow from the stadium lights nearby. We hung out by the railroad tracks and talked while she smoked. Her bare midriff looked great. I wanted to kiss her hipbones.

It’s a grand thing, to just enjoy being with a person. I must learn to accept the gift without binding a bagful of expectations to it, or trying to tie it to the rails and while I listen for a warning whistle. I must stop doing what my shrink calls “magical thinking.” It’s not magic; it’s timeless as moonlight, and as natural. It’s just two people sharing some time: no ticket, no train. And maybe some baggage we can each leave behind, if we stay in the moment.