Scrapbook Mind

...people with each other, to prove they love each other a long ago....

Stripped trees cling to stray leaves in a futile effort to cover their stark nakedness.

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I have no memory of her face, no recollection of our interaction, simply an image of her fingers, delicate and pale, tipped with squared off nails freshly manicured pink and white, just the image of her hands, a Poloriod snapshot with no name or date.

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Rain drums heavy on the roof, snaredrum pounding heavy as summer storms. Thinking (not thinking) of someone I used to know, I roll over, trying to hide from my thoughts, relentless as the rain.

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I reach out one armed, awkward, to embrace her as she weeps. "Two weeks ago. She was my best friend." Fragile shoulders shake with sobs. Gentle, helpless, I stroke the small bones of her back and shoulders, wish to take her home to comfort her recent loss. I think of losing Pogo, that wound so fresh yet six months (already) old.

I cannot take this woman home. She's leaving. "Try to have a happy holiday anyway," the grocery checkout girl says sofly as she goes.

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Sun breaks through sudden, shining strong and golden, a smile from Heaven amidst the scowling clouds.

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"Hold still," he says, touching a hand-held device to the air surrounding my throat. "Oh, yeah, she's hot," he declares to no one in particular. "I have digital confirmation."

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In shimmering greycloud damp, I spread arms outward and turn face up to catch the mist upon it, open wide to the world in all its wonderful permutations.


(Picture Book; The Kinks)