sweet possibility

I like a cool-weather, sunshine-bathed morning,
slowly drinking steamy dark roast,
each sip a prayer, Thank You
Writing and blanket-washing top today’s agenda
though comforters can wait until tomorrow
if my pen hits a hot streak and takes me home
to my hiding-heart little girl.
Memories don’t get lonely, but maybe they do.
Lonely wasn’t a word my young mind conjured on long days,
lying on our orange shag, waiting for the phone to ring,
waiting for anything and I didn’t know what
but that I would be sure when I found it.
I can write a path to her side, tell her it was worth the wait,
and all the confusion along the way,
sorting through the debris of a sick society
to find the jewels, then holding tight.
I’ll thank her for having a good grip on our dreams.
If she’ll consent to a journey, I’ll escort her through decades,
clear a space on the couch, make her a cup of hot chocolate,
and we can reminisce, though not a word be spoken.

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