I fell deeply in love with her standing in a small jeweler’s shop in Bangor, Wales on a November morning. In truth, cradling a small silver Celtic cross in my hands I knew then that I taken that plunge within moments of our meeting and recognition of it was all that remained.
You came into my life last week, your name forever locked away inside her mind. My life, she felt, would never be the same and therefore left all thought of you behind. You loved her, I suppose, that summer night then left her, bearing me, until she turned me over for adoption, that she might forget the love that you so quickly spurned. A Jew, she said, but would say little more a father, Portuguese, is all I know, who cast his seed, then left and closed the door and me, the son, he never would see grow. You left her life long before I was born, the father I won’t know but only mourn.
First published in Minison Project, Sonnet Collection Series, Vol. 2, Sept. 2021
Just outside town in the old dump is a slab of concrete its twisted edges pierced by rusting rebar once the floor of the gazebo in the commons. Etched into its surface Jim + Marie Janet Loves Eddie. Their loves were undying cast into stone to wear slowly through the ages not to fall victim to the jackhammer. Jim lies under the simple stone “Sgt. U. S. Army Served Vietnam,” Marie left for college but came home, a nurse at the Community Hospital now divorced with two daughters. Eddied married Sue, three times runner up for homecoming queen and lives in a trailer by the county line. Janet waits tables in the coffee shop at Caesar’s Palace while her husband, whom she met at the truck stop, deals blackjack in the casino. Their son lives in San Francisco with his lover, but they haven’t spoken to him in more years than they can remember. The old gazebo was replaced years ago by the giant steel play gym.
I was born the same day, in a much later year as Thornton Wilder, a fact that had no impact at all on my life, since I discovered our common birthday long after my life’s path was half tread.
I read him in my youth, and must admit I can recall nothing of what I read, which I attribute to all that I have read since, and not as any criticism of Wilder’s writing, for his talent is beyond question.
But what was disconcerting was to learn that Nick Hornby was born five years to the day after me and has penned works that I love but cannot hope to equal despite my having lived longer if not more fully than he has.
In my dream, the world was at peace, and I was riding across Kansas on a unicycle, towing my car, packed to the windows, my dog walking alongside urging me to speed up because she wanted to visit South Dakota. I am due for a tricycle, I remind the dog, “the grave more likely,” she responds with a sneer that teeters between love and spite, always precariously balanced, as is her food bowl on the roof of the car. I could tell it was a dream which is not often easy from its midst, by the utter lack of churches, synagogues and mosques, none to be seen and the Great Blue Heron nesting in a scrub pine on the shreds of Holy Books.
Take one part Grand Marnier, one Frangelico, a short cup of coffee, whipped cream only if you wish, curl on the sofa with your life’s greatest love and your first real, truly your first Christmas Eve makes you wonder why you waited so long.
First published in The Poet: Christmas (2020 United Kingdom)
It is the eyes that fall in love, the heart that follows like an always faithful shadow, and the mind and reason that are bound to darkness and silence.
That is what I learned in my dream last night, or my recollection of it, for dreams may fade in the sharp light of morning.
But dreams have a potent magic, a holiness really, for there I can resurrect the dead and if the mood is right, bend back the arrow of time, render it dimensionless, all the while I remain constant, but certain with any luck, in someone else’s dream, I may be a child, a young man, or any of a thousand other roles I cannot imagine.