I was walking a hopeful road that day.
It felt almost like a dream beside her
looking at the ocean, high above the city below.
Tall blades of grass swayed golden in the sun.
From that high up the ocean appeared silent,
and the black dots riding waves were people
gliding against the tranquil bed of water.
Like a stenographer I listened while she spoke
nodding in agreement, wanting her to like me.
We talked all about everything that day
and she sang Life Is A Highway while I blushed.
It’s hard to read you, she said. But I didn’t mind.
Because the world seemed new and exciting,
like nothing else mattered but our feet and the ground.
Everyone else was COVID crazy but
we had that, before the first kiss feeling
that no one can deny, that nothing could dismantle—
you know, that private little world between ignorance and bliss.
Nobody quite wore a baseball cap like her.
Or looked at me with such uncertain eyes,
like she knew then I couldn’t be trusted.
Or perhaps she thought I was it?
The future took a different course
when the surf died down and the people disappeared.
No wave can last forever, but
it’s remembering those tiny moments,
the inside jokes, and playful voices.
It’s remembering the good stuff,
while the bad we just let rest.
It’s remembering we’re human,
human enough to forgive,
and human enough to be civil.
It’s the poems written in bed
and the songs sung in our infancy—
The Essence Of Her Core (unpublished).
It’s knowing I’ll see her again, as friends
and I’ll be glad to hear her voice,
to see her smile, and know she’s well.
The road may not be ours together anymore
but that doesn’t mean the road’s less hopeful.
That doesn’t mean that I’ll stop walking.