It began with the year of forty…39 to be honest but ‘the year of 39’ just isn’t the same, is it?
On this day I remember all I know of all the years since ’69 and the ones that came rushing back this past week. Photos from a mutual friend and an hour at tea on a long tan curved leather bench beside the glass rail on the second floor. Love and loss and the clocks that span the spaces between stop where we left them last.
Lost and found, oceans and mountains and tall glass towers with balconies and sliding doors. Shhhhhh…decades and stories, parallel paths that never bend, until her cup drips where the string from the tea bag wicks under the pressed plastic lid
and my fingertips sweep the tea drops from her thigh before they disappeared in the mist in the memories of denim and the moment and the girl who knew me when…and I smile…and we are found.