Wednesday, July 8, 2020

Just two people


No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember our first kiss.
But I remember every single detail
about our first hug.

It was on the sidewalk on Main Street
near the Overtime Tavern where we had been.
Arriving separately,
but leaving at the same time.

Bill the dog, waiting in the back
of Old Yeller (remember that pickup?)
parked in front of City Hall,
which makes the town sound bigger
and grander than it actually is.

It was not a first date
or any date at all for that matter.
It was just two people
enjoying each other's company
after work over a beer, belly-up to the bar.

For an Iowa farm girl,
he was an exotic cross between a hippy and a logger.
(I wonder what I was to him?)
His conversation was rapid and unpredictable,
as if bouncing off the bumpers in a pinball machine,
nearly impossible to catch up with.

As I recall, he mostly talked
and I mostly listened. Which is how I like it.
I understood some of what he said.

We left the bar together
and walked toward our vehicles.
Mine must have been parked
behind The Journal, where I worked.

And then suddenly,
I'm not sure how it happened,
I was in his arms in a perfect hug
that was exactly the right thing.
Unexpectedly perfect.

...

Now, many years later,
so much has changed.
The bar is a bistro, Old Yeller is gone,
the half-finished house is a mostly finished home.
The outhouse is now the recycling center.
The outdoor shower moved inside.
Kids have grown. Four beautiful daughters.
Grandkids arrived. Another on the way.

But one thing hasn't changed -
in his arms is still where I belong.
Exactly the right thing.
A perfect fit. Then and now.

...

(And no matter how hard I try,
I honestly cannot tell you about that first kiss.
More than thirty-two years ago.
But I'm guessing it was a doozy.)





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