Cricket

It happens in unexpected ways, on lovely ordinary days and quiet bus rides home. Two men discussing cricket.. arguing over points or wickets or whatever it is they do. “My dad loves cricket.” I hear myself say.. to the window.. the girl in the glass.

“Grown men standing around on the grass all day.”

“You’d like it if you understood.” he’d say. So I’d sit a while and listen and watch his eyes glistening, glued to the screen, as he’d try to explain the mind-numbing game.

“Hmmmmm…” I’d say….and he’d wave me away with mock disdain. “You’re all like your mother. Go…play with your hair. Phone your friends and go somewhere.”

“Awe… Dad… don’t be that way.”

“Go on. Go on….and don’t come home too late.”

The Last Goodbye

Drawing of beautiful, sad young woman, titled 'Another Sad Love Song' by Lee WildeAre you staying?” I already knew the answer, the small, chilled word in my chest.

“No. I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

A silent moment there, neither daring to touch the jagged edge. He stared down at his hands, beautiful, smooth. “I just can’t.”

Continue reading “The Last Goodbye”

Gone

Last night in my dreams, I had drawn a tropical storm. Dark, menacing beauty. Gusts of charcoal rendered paper houses ripped and torn.

Then…combing my hair with my fingers. Ribbons of light in a darkened room.

“I have to leave soon.” he said. I already knew. “We could write” he began.

I touched my hands to his lips, “Sssh…” and the blue-grey cotton of his shirt, already feeling him gone.

————————————————

Years later. “It was never going to last. We were young.”

“We don’t know that.” he whispered into the phone.

Elevator

elevator

Elevator. Ascend. Thoughts of… nothing. Then, a friend. Long ago. Soft, ever-present ache. Vhooooooom…. reflected silence, smooth and cool, the back of my hand against the glass. The past is the past is my mountain, my hill, is an undissolved pill without resolution or hint of an end, remembering faces of long ago friends. BING! This is me. I straighten my dress and step out.