My World

I sat on the bank with my knees to my chest, and stared at the grey, dusty memory of a brook. The rains had finally come so the banks flaunted their green, but the bed that the brook had long left unmade, sheets still all in a ruffle, felt more my speed today. I wiped my nose again on my sleeve and it stung with over-familiarity, my sleeve drenched. The trees dwarfing the twisting trail of dust laced their branches overhead, but beams of light shot through here and there. It felt small, but I felt small. Cozy, not smothering. Safe and isolated, like a fairy kingdom.

A red helicopter, white cross on the bottom, flew over. It was loud and close, demanding attention, so I obliged, craning my neck to watch it pass over. I turned around to watch it pass behind a building, and there was Graham.

He stood still in a way you only can once you've been that way for a long time.

"Hey, Wordie." He took his hands out of his pockets when he saw me notice him, and walked down the bank towards me.

I nodded in response.

"Blocky blues getting to you again?" He said, smiling as he sat down.

I shook my head. "I hate this place."

"This place?" He glanced at the rolling blanket of green that swallowed us up on all sides.

"Not this place. This place," I said making a wide gesture with my hand. "University."

"People say you love it here."

I sighed. "I know."

"They're not wrong," he guessed, "but you still hate it here?"

I nodded in satisfaction, letting my chin rest on my knees. Graham understood everything: which made for little conversation and easy company, both of which I preferred.

Time might've passed, or maybe it didn't. Hard to tell. Graham stood.

"I need to get back."

I glanced at my watch, even though I didn't need to. "Okay."

He helped me up and began walking back up the edge of the bank.

"Graham, would you do something for me?"

He turned and looked at me in a way that said, "Anything."

The wind blew up over the edge of the bank and ruffled the green carpet. It blew against my face and arms that made me feel alive; and sad.

"Tell Alex I say 'hi.'"

I thought he'd give me that ancient, somber smile, but he only looked back at me gravely. At last he said, "I will."

I lowered my eyes, realizing how cruel it was, me asking. "I'm sorry, Graham. You don't have to—"

"No," he said, firmly. "It's my job." I'd forgotten how much he could change. There were two Graham's: the young, carefree one that belonged to another world, and the wizened old man that belonged to mine.

I swallowed, but it burned. "Thank you, Graham."

He nodded, took my hand, squeezed it, and left. I watched him walk back as far as I could, then kept staring as though I could see him past the trees and buildings. I watched him walk all the way back to the future.

Mut's Requiem

She took one look at him and said

Better luck next time, son.

A bright blue bouncy ball

Won't cover that loss.

Winter's coming on fast, fast

Better plant a rosebush before it's too late.

I think they deserve some credit.

Not every truth recommends itself.

Fewer and fewer pigeons

Visit us each year.

But walking on a railroad

Makes everything seem small.

Slow dancing

 "Ian?"

"Mm?"

"Are we gonna get married?"

"Do you want to?"

 "Do you?"

"I want whatever you want."

"Say that now, but that'll all change after marriage."

"Says who?"

 "I do."

"Why?"

"Because I know me. And I know you."

"What do you know about us?"

 "I didn't say I knew anything about us. I know about me and I know about you. Us is different."

 "What do you know about me and you?"

"I know that I am selfish. And I know that you are stubborn. And you won't always want what I want. Especially if you're supposed to."

"Mm. Well you know what I know about us?"

"What?"

"We need each other."

 "You're saying its not a choice."

"I'm saying it was a choice to walk into that bookstore that Wednesday afternoon, but then the freedom was over."

"It was a Tuesday."

"It was any day. It was every day from birth until we met. It was freedom until we met and shackled ourselves to each other."

 "And wedding bands are a bit like chains?"

"A bit."

"Golden shackles."

"With diamonds."

"I do like things that glitter."

"You do."

 ..."I do."

The Day The Forks Stood Still

The November wind was springy that day,

A trampoline among cranky bah-humbugs.

Salt and pepper danced and danced and danced,

And we felt we'd never die, because surely this was Heaven.

The forks were the first to notice it, clattering

Like agitated cattle before electricity and bellows.

The glasses surely noticed it too, for they fell

thud! against the mahogany like beheaded lumber in the woods.

That made the knives still.

It made everything still.

The chairs shifted expectantly toward the doorway,

A pious congregation with brimstone in mind and dread in heart.

Even the napkins hushed their white fluttering, swans

Folding their wings awkwardly, interrupted mid-landing.

The plates lay silent without chattering forks,

For wordless bookworms sit emptily in corners.

The steaming turkey shivered and sneezed,

A puppy dumped on the side of the freeway.

All turned.

All waited.

It was a Thursday, or would've been if

That kind of a day could be put on a calendar.

The table must've forgotten about us,

Because good servants never disobey good masters.

Not that it matters now.

Not that anything mattered then.

She didn't make it.

I'm Not Dead Yet

I looked in the mirror

and saw my enemies

staring back at me.

And I was inside of them.

They must've swallowed me up.

Had I let them?

Had I even put up a fight?

Something

tells me I hadn't.

Maybe it's a memory.

"Now is not the time for weakness. You must press onward as battle-tested warriors and defeat the enemy."

I stare

up into the

twig splattered

patch of sky—

here

it's all buildings

and trees

but that's not why

you can't see the stars—

and try to cry.

Or maybe just to cry out.

I open

a fresh document

and start typing.

Before I know it,

I've typed myself

off the page.

Funny

how I always think that

prayer answers

will come fast and sharp

like a gust of fresh wind

or maybe a whip.

Funny

how it's always

so soft and silent

I don't even notice it

until I've almost

forgotten.

My life

happens so gradually

I don't even notice it.

But today I notice.

And that was the day

I finally saw

the green

in my eyes,

and I remembered

who I was.

It was a silly notion,

thinking

the green

had crisped to brown

like leaves,

but forever.

Green doesn't just

disappear

completely.

But then,

with the end of the world

so near

it didn't seem

altogether

impossible.

But no.

It was really

there.

It hadn't been swallowed

up

by the rotting

brown decay

laying siege to it.

It was there,

clear as ever

if you only

looked.

If you only

used

the right kind of

Light.