Dear to Me

 

 

Becky is dear to me. She is fond of me. She finds me to be a good audience. She is a drama queen. She is also sweet and creamy. She has no hard edges. She stings. She has a laugh and a smile that begins and ends with her eyes. They sparkle. They darken. When she switches to her daaaling mode I know I have lost her. I will be a character in her drama. Sometimes the drama is scripted. We each play a role of equal weight, yet, I have no script. She is the writer, producer, director. Sometimes it is a silent script. Sometimes it plays out in real time and space—a word, a message: come. I arrive and knock. There is no response. I try the door, it is unlocked. Why am I not surprised? I enter. The house is quiet. I improvise knowing all the while how it will play out, though the specifics, the details, the dialog, if there is dialog, remain to be seen. It is summer. Sunny, daylight, delightful. Bright and cheery. The house it is light and airy. The colors are subtle. The furnishing just so, tasteful. I climb the stairs. She is in bed.  No words are exchanged. Or, it is the dead of winter. Fiercely cold. A fierce wind. We are at the beach, bundled up and down and every which way. Snow covers the sand, the shore is berged. She removes her boots, her socks, offers herself to the ice goddess, laughing, dancing, unfettered. Still, in her liberation she is specific in needs and wants. A slap across my face tells me I have misjudged. Decorum, manners, gestures matter.  There are expectations. Much, too much, is unspoken, implied. She is in a terrible car accident that winter—ice and skidding and impact. Her injuries, physical and psychic, take a long time to heal. She moves to sunny climes. She writes: I spiraled down. My life unraveled. It took a sewing machine to stitch it back together à la Plath. That was the last communication. Time passed, years. Our lives are no longer our own, no longer private. I searched. I know her story has a happy ending—is having a happy ending. We should all have happy endings. She is dear to me. She always will be.

 

 

 

 





Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 217 times
Written on 2023-01-29 at 15:48

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you made me thinking and wanting to write another poem
something that for sure must bloom before
2023-02-04


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
What can I add to the comments already made? Yet this poem/lyrical short story is a real gem and after reading must be commented upon! I think all authors know that feeling that you get when reading someone else's words and you wish they were your own? This engendered that feeling in me. If I could award points it would be fifteen out of ten. Super.
Blessings, Allen
2023-01-30


The sparrow
So tenderly rests the words ~ filled with hope for the future to a dear friend ...
Your stories are so wonderfully human ~ you
master of poems…
2023-01-30


D G Moody The PoetBay support member heart!
WOW! I'm not sure how to categorise this. Certainly a poem, and it pulls me in, as Alan says, we need to know the ending, and yet, did it end happily? Or is the writer only hopeful? This such a good piece - Bravo maestro!
2023-01-30


Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Personally I couldn't wait for this poem to end
Only because I'm looking forward to reading
Other masterpieces of your work
Regards Alan
2023-01-30