Love, Part II. Portal

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

Mile marker 69 and the portals open, sensing the proximity of the past.

One by one the memories come, like waves, leaving bits and pieces of story behind, like broken shells.

“No wonder everyone drinks here,” I say, at mile marker 63, feeling the undertow of my youth.

Who decides which memory comes?

Is there some alchemy of sky and scent and age?

If I took your hand in mine, would we jump?

Could we survive?

A Week Away -or- The Fish is Dead, by Gail Chaine

553739_10150738184878746_537908745_9645142_904561274_nThe pile of damp towels is mildewed.
? Various items have fallen off the walls?
… you know, what I mean.

But the blueberries are ripe and sweet,
despite crabgrass growing in the patch.

He, took me right to bed…
She, let me kiss her on the top of her head.

It’s good to be home, even though
the fish is dead.

(Gail Chaine, July 2013)