S. W. R.

She spies the book of nursery rhymes on my bookshelf. I recall out loud a bit of one.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat
They took some honey
and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note

She has no idea what I'm saying, recognizes none of it.

I don't know any nursery rhymes.

Turns out that at the bar she spent her childhood in, the juke box was too loud and her parents were too busy tending to customers - or each other - too busy to read to their daughter.

For her birthday, I give her the book. Cracking it open, I read aloud to her the nursery rhymes. I want to give her the memory of hearing them, not reading them. She's embarrassed at first but closes her eyes and falls into it.

It's a day that doesn't leave either of us.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She writes me notes on anything usable, stationery, scraps of paper, a napkin, notebook paper (mattered not whether neat or ripped from its wire binding, frilled edges included), typing paper, letterhead from whatever job she's working, pages from a legal pad, whatever she can find or use to write on.

Just want to say hi. I miss you. Meet me at the river this weekend.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A box of matches sits between us. We flip it like a coin to decide whether we will sleep together at the end of the night. It could have gone either way. Thorns on one side, a pink rose on the other. The imagery of the matchbook should have been telling enough. Thorns, Yes. Rose, No. It lands rose side up, which was my pick. My opponent offers, Best of three?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The lake spans out before us. I'm on the diving board, facing her.

Bounce three times, throw your arms back and your knees over your head.

I land on my stomach. Again. When I climb the ladder to the dock, she's laughing at the entertainment I provide her. Her laughter floats upward into the trees. Still, she's patient with me. I finally nail the back flip. She's proud.

We grab two beers from the cooler and swim out to the floating dock in the middle of the lake. There, we sit in the quiet between the water and the trees, and dry slowly in the sun, drop-by-evaporating-drop.

It's a day that doesn't leave either of us.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She's tough on me, doesn't let me get away with much. She thinks she knows what's best for me. She might be right.

You're either going to step down from that pedestal they've all put you on, or someone's going to knock you off. I don't want to be around when you fall.

Maybe that was true, but she was around. She picked up the pieces and put me back together. A little tainted, a lot imperfect. A scar and a story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She seems to be fading from my eyes. Her energy is soft, out of focus. The space she takes up is smaller. I see it and carry it with me. How odd to see someone fade.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Years ago this week.

She has a goal in mind. She drives herself from Austin to San Antonio, checks into a hotel. She tears a page from the bible and sets it on the dresser. She wraps a rope around the closet pole, then wraps the rope around her neck.

She successfully meets her goal.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon
The moon
The moon
They danced by the light of the moon