Magpie 121


http://magpietales.blogspot.com


I remember that day in June when you put those words down in a way that made me giggle with delight as I stood out on the pavement drinking lemonade.  I remember that day in July when you reached for the sky and tore down the clouds, ripped out the stars, and fell into the sea.  I remember that day in August when I took you by the shoulders, looked at you and told you that I still loved you something fierce.  I remember waking up one September and thinking, there’s no way I’ll ever give up on you, nor you on me.


Today I sit by my window, looking into the garden, scribbling more words to send to you.  It has been many words since we first found each other reflecting in our eyes.  I have pieces of you scattered about my being, in my heart and lungs and blood and skin, and I see the sun each time you speak my name.  I save the worn packages that arrive in the post  from you, little tokens of what conjured up my face when you saw them, handmade cards with your photographs and the gentleness of your words that have always made me smile softly.


When I was a little girl, I had a best friend who I would hold hands with, skip rope with, lay on the grass and count clouds with, run into the woods and climb trees with, shout and laugh and run down streets with, climb into an old tractor tire and read books with, fall asleep in the sun with, race around on blue schwinn bicycles with.  I filled up countless journals as I grew up and then threw them into the fire.  I crossed oceans and drove miles and filled up volumes and let them disintegrate into dreams. I wrote and I wrote and I ran and I ran.


And one day, I stood still.  I wrote you down on a list, describing what you might be like, how I would feel when I met you.  I saw your blue grey eyes in a dozen photographs and breathed deeply.  I gave you myself in black and white and in color and found you entangled in my prose.  You found me and you quieted me, and in words inked and typed and spoken, you saved me.


“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” ~ John Steinbeck, East of Eden 

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