rain city bumbershoot

A Childhood Love Affair

“You sound good,” he said.  A nervous voice on the other end of the phone, and a remembrance of his boyish bed face, and the street sweepers moaning in the distance.  I allowed him to feel my curves as a penance for all I’ve done:  letting him travel places he needed without restriction.  I gazed at the back of my book, seeing authors glare at me with reserve.  Their arrogance was like his as he tried to erase

my name from his forearm with a switchblade.  The hammers swung:  after a long break from the workers next door.  They smoked on the porch, and left ashes to blow in the wind toward the garden.  Like the wooden raindrops on the roof, their hammers began to once again smash what was left into firewood.  He left his journal.  He was cured.  He entered “real life” with caution.  I never doubted his intentions, but his reasons were suspect:  deceit drawn on torn pages.

You’re not coming back, are you?