>since

>

I don’t know Andy. But once I knew a man who urged me to climb to the top of Pompey’s Pillar with my sleeping bag. He’d come from where he was, I was to come from where I was and we’d meet at the top and you know. Cover ourselves with stars. Or some suchness.
I never did meet him there. But I’ve since slept at the base of that pillar. Somewhere in this blog is a photo of the prairie grass with the morning sunlight slicing through it.
My timing is often off.
Remember me? I was your wrong number the other day.
And once I knew someone else not called Andy. All over the Malibu we ate from a can-man’s grocery cart. But never at McD’s in Tijuana. He knew how to carve a crutch. He knew how to laugh when our Tijuana taxi driver got lost and asked us for directions. He always knew when to cross the border, how to get back home. But then some suchness happened. And guess what. Somehow now he’s lost.
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About redmitten

author of Cracking Geodes Open, Making Good Use of August, and The Peppermint Bottle. poetry editor for IthacaLit. website: https://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com

7 responses to “>since

  1. >Sometimes I want to run away to Montana and marry you. 🙂

  2. >These are such great memories. The things we decide to do and not to do. Sometimes just knowing the option was there is enough. Sometimes our imaginations make better of the reality. Lovely.My Grandma was born in Red Lodge and then lived in Billings before moving to So. Cal with her mom and siblings. I suppose that's why I was drawn back there for college. Montana has a way of doing that.xoRachel

  3. >Oh lovely, lovely memories….

  4. >Wonderful, again. (Plus, ditto Kelly.)

  5. >The moments of suchness, what a perfect word to cover them. I will go now and ponder suchnesses. A treat to read, thank you.

  6. >How many moments we think back on and wonder what if. His name was David (On my!) and four years later he called me…. the day before my wedding. "suchness" happens….

  7. >Have continued to think about this, will probably reference your post in mine. The Malibu/Tijuana man story reads like the abridged version of a Jim Thompson novel. One can only imagine…

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