So Close at The Open House

Next to you at the Open House is a woman. Though seated you can tell she is tall. Taller than you like. Her hair is curly and soft brown while you prefer long, straight, and raven. Her eyes are large almonds both in shape and color. Perfect only if they were blue or green or pure brown. Her chest wears a late summer tan showing above a simple white blouse, the hint of cleavage tasteful. You do not notice this, of course, as this is third grade Open House and the parents of your child's friends might see you do so. You do notice, however, the woman's nose and cheekbones as she speaks to the other parents in a confident voice about the PTO. They are magnificent and anchor what you now see is a face so beautiful you might rethink every preference you've ever had. The nose is small, perfectly sculpted, dimpled just above the tip and on both sides. A symmetrical masterpiece. Her cheekbones, the skin a little flushed from public speaking, are high as heaven and nearly make you forget the tanned cleavage you did not notice. Suddenly you want this woman like you've never wanted another. Need her like you need water. Air. Something to believe in. You think how you could love this woman, this vision with almond eyes and cheekbones on high. How you could finish raising your children together. Make love beneath the sound of an Islamorada sunset. Travel to Greece in your middle age. Take walks together when you both grow old. You trace these thoughts down the length of a tan, toned arm, pause on the delicate pivot of her wrist, continue to long delicate fingers on one of which rests a simple band of gold and a blinding rock the size of Rhode Island. You move a little in your seat, smooth your little boy cargo shorts, shift your ample belly, and think in your nonplussed manner, "Ah Fuck, I almost had her."

Lucinda

I like it when you sing all mournful and full of hurt. Not because it pains you to do so but because I know that same hurt and grief and longing--only I can't give it voice. Not like you. You have a way, a scary way, of opening your entire bruise of a soul and inviting me to poke at it with my own hurt.

Train

The train in the distance. Her whistle rebounding off trees, black sky, wet summer air--everything that makes up the night. There is no moon but there is and it watches and awaits the train's approach and pass.

Just as do I.

Captures (My Son at The Falls)

My son on the hiking trail. The Falls, high on his dominant side, share a canopy of mist seeming just for him. His hair, long with a full summer's growth, is everywhere beneath his Red Sox cap. His Gulf-blue eyes, alive, threaten to dwarf the sun, pure bursts of soul. He alone gives me hope. They day is a spectacular thing all for his being. His every move--on trails, in streams, on rock walls, measuring the edge of the falls--is deliberate, confident.

He pauses at the water's edge, hands on hips. Surveys the masterpiece of it all. It is so quiet you can hear the sun shine. As I have done more times than there are numbers, I look at him. And once again my breath catches in my throat at how he complements everything around him.

Jesus Christ, he is beautiful.

Absence

And though it is only a few times a year, the absence of his feet padding down the hall each morning is devastating.

How Much Alone

Sometimes the ever silence echoes. Startles you in as much as you allow anything to startle you. While you thrive in solitude the realist in you wonders, on occasion, how much alone is too much. You think, most likely, no amount. The opposite of alone is unfathomable. For true. You are too selfish to give it up. But in the spirit of a quiet moment, you must admit that on that rarest occasion it might be advisable to share that aloneness. You won't, though, perhaps out of fear she will take too much of it. For really there is not too much of it. Only just enough. There is just enough for you. The selfish you. It seems that is all that sates you. You require it. It sustains you. Only it. Why would a reasonable man risk losing that? Why, indeed. It seems a thing worthy of discussion. And so you roll it around. Think on it. And you have your one-sided discussion. And you polish what you do not learn and think on it some more. Utterly convinced it is not always selfish to be selfish. Not always.

How much alone.

How much alone.

Women

They seem, all, to belong to someone else. Different someones, of course. You don't want them for your own, necessarily. Just a loaner of sorts. For a weekend say or three days. These beautiful, infuriating women. Everywhere you turn or don't they are there. At the table or at the bar next to you it seems. Always rapt in conversation. Always talking or listening. Always animated. The way they tilt their heads back in a laugh showing the lines of their necks, nuances of pale and tan throats. Afterward, they nearly always fashion loose strands of perfect hair behind a right ear. Sometimes they finger, absently, the earring there. If it is there. All cheekbones on high and lovely. The quick furrowed brow when a conversation takes a turn for the serious. And then a calming smile before retreating again to more pedestrian talk. And often the neckline of whatever they wear is low and hints of cleavage even if there is none. Or a blouse bunches at the second or third button and the glance of lingerie or breast is dizzying. The briefest glimpse of white, fabric or skin. A suggestion only of what lies there. And you are foolish with lust. It is your nature. You try to be respectful. To not look at the women and their young eyes and jawlines. To not imagine their collar bones, their warm breath meeting yours. Their rhythm.

They seem, all, to belong to someone else. And while you do not want them to be yours, you think a long weekend, three days perhaps, would be nice. Maybe just to hold or breathe in or touch their cheekbones barely with the backs of your fingers.