into the new year

As we lay down,
my elegant elephant and I,
and bat back and forth the shuttlecock
of favorite days-
hers a Christmas morning,
mine a Sunday afternoon,
hers a day in the sand,
mine this very evening-
our thoughts sift into a tawny dust
that rises to fill the universe
as we drift off
into the new year.

and while our blood's still young

It will probably be winter.
You will probably be wearing a black shirt.
I will probably be waiting in line for something.
The snow will be gray. The streets melting. The air decembering.
I will probably stare. You will probably notice.
I will imagine myself wearing Max's wolf suit.
You will be anywhere but within my gaze.
I will probably step out of line.
Maybe I'll discover you by a poster of Yuri Gagarin.
Maybe I'll catch you through a beige bookshelf.
Maybe you'll kineticize like Stef.
Maybe your eyes will searchaskopen like Gretchen.
Maybe you'll screamlaughcrumble like Brooke.
Maybe you'll stand even smaller than you are like Em. In a winter doorframe. In a teardrop of fuzzied focus.
Maybe that's how I'll recognize you.
There's probably a party this weekend at a house I've never been to.
It will be black and yellow and warm and hot and black then orange.
I will be standing on the porch. You will have been followed there.
Maybe the Temper Trap will start playing.
I won't know how to dance to it.
You probably won't either.
Maybe that constant beat isn't a heart.
Maybe it's my feet. Maybe it has been the whole time.
Maybe my feet have been moving me here from the beginning.
Maybe for no reason.
Maybe your shoes will remind me of water.
You will probably walk back inside.
I will probably stand in the cold.
Maybe this is the beginning of the longgame.
Maybe I can taste the salt of the wood beneath my feet.
Maybe it's summer.
Maybe I'm six months early.
Maybe I'm six months too late.

a little

Every Saturday, from November to March, from as far back as he can remember until he was fourteen-years-old, he would tiptoe out of bed while the winter sky was still black and make himself two pieces of white toast with butter and sugar, turn the furnace up to eighty, sit with his feet over the heating vent, cover himself with an orange and brown afghan, and watch snow fall onto the three giant pine trees in the front yard. There was always snow. It was always quiet. And he could wrap myself in the smell of dustymetal furnaceheat and crispysweet butter. Safe and alone he would fill the silent slate of predawn with boondoggle dreams. And he would think himself cared for. And he would think himself loved. And he would think himself prince of a quiet moment. And he would eat his toast in circles - starting at the crust and working his way to the center - carefully aiming his course to ensure that the very last bite would always be perfect, as a child's yearning. A little toast. A little butter. A little sugar.

diary: adult

Thursday
The black sky is wholesale purging its stores. I stand leglocked by the window and stare as the rest of the office clicks and tittles away. I have never seen rain like this. I am a shameless gawker. I turn to the girl sitting closest to me but realize I have nothing to say. I look out the window again just in time to see a man's shoe fall onto a parked Buick.

Friday
I run over an (apple?) the size of a terrier on my way out of Dodge. Better than a terrier the size of an apple. I think. My car starts complaining.

Saturday
The only difference between your portobello sandwich and my caprese sandwich is that your squeaky mass is black and mine is white. Also today, I fall asleep to the sound of clouds arguing.

Sunday
Stripped to his intentions, man is but a tantrum of seagulls. Woman, a riot of wildflowers. Or a painting of windmills.

Monday
Phone.

Tuesday
Meet Dave for lunch at a romantic patisserie. Reminds me of the time we almost saw 500 Days of Summer together. Alone together. Cultural doesn't supplant romantic. Dave uses the word 'erect' in a non-sexual context. We are finally adults. (Ten minutes later when Amber comes we use the word 'poo' 17 times.)

Wednesday
Discover that orchids are most desirable as a plant, not a flower. Orchids belong to the same family as Vanilla. Some can self-reproduce. The name orchid literally means testicle. Happy first day of school, girlfriend.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one."...

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on." "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the glass; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

Who was, but is not

On page 539 of my mission copy of Jesus the Christ, written in a tiny pencil scribble along the crease of a mangled dog ear, are the words "promise and do."

On page 358, next to the title As A Little Child, is written "believe believe believe."

On page 612, below "Behold thy mother!" --"promise and love."

On page 443: "my treasure = God. Wife. Children."

Ten years ago, sitting at a makeshift desk balancing precariously on the edge of the equator, a boy wrote secret messages to a stranger who he thought he knew. A boy who wasn't afraid to promise, or do, or believe, or love, or treasure his treasure. A boy who had no idea that his greatest enemy would be his future self. A boy, as I recall, brave enough to face me now with all of my experience and learning and say simply "You don't know. I do."

Shhhh. Listen to the boy who was, but is not, yourself.

PROVIDEnce

The words "I can't imagine," and "that could never happen," appear on nearly every page of my journal. They are always written in reference to something I am begging for in my life. Something I am praying for out of mercy, not worthiness. And even though I pray for it, I tell myself it's impossible. I am wrong every time.

the assurance of love

(for mom)

She keeps leaping
and the sun sets on her silhouette.
In the dark I can hear her heart beating
her throat breathing
her legs leaping
as she dances her way to the moon.

She starts to sing
with a pink and periwinkle voice
about a bee bouncing 'round from tree to tree.
She is not shy in the dark.
She is not scared
of what her daddy thinks of her.

Mom looks down
from her treeless mountain in the clouds
and smiles a living smile at her baby.
And her baby's baby.
And I am bookended
by two soft-as-sunlight lilies.

Her silly dance
is a six-year-old's translation of your rocking arms.
Her busy song is your noiseless lullaby.
I see you both in the dark.
And I am not scared
of what you think of me.

daily bite

2 lines that deeply affected me this morning from conference:

"The ultimate end of all activity in the church is that a man and his wife and their children might be happy at home, protected by the principles and laws of the gospel, sealed safely in the covenants of the everlasting priesthood."

and:

"Now, fathers, I would remind you of the sacred nature of your calling. You have the power of the priesthood directly from the Lord to protect your home. There will be times when all that stands as a shield between your family and the adversary’s mischief will be that power. You will receive direction from the Lord by way of the gift of the Holy Ghost."

My Turtle, who is about to turn 6:

I don't know if I have been the best father. But you have been the best turtle, the best sunrise, the best mermaid, the best pearl. Last night you told me you wanted to be an author, and I went in my room and cried. Partly because you are old enough to know what an author is. Partly because my dreams are becoming yours. But mostly because you had something to say, and you wanted to say it to me. I love you more than when you were a turtle. I love you more than when you were a sunrise. I love you more than when you were a mermaid. I love you more than when you were a pearl. I love you almost as much as I will tomorrow.

Life

Add to a playlist More from this artist

(This post is meant to be read out loud along with the above soundtrack)


The straining violin of God's voice.
A tiny light made infinitely bright.
A heave and a sigh.

The manic banging of keys.
An astronaut cut from his lifecord.
A birth. A cry.

The iambic pulse of God's heart.
The stuttered steps of his boyfawn.
A gentle youthsong.

An opera of unknowable words.
A treefrown, a wounding, a lie.
The broken everything.

An opera of unknowable words.
A treefall, a tearing, a pieta.
The broken everything.

An opera of unknowable words.
(...)
(...)

The quiet.
The empty.
Startover.

....
....
....

After this tangled shoestring:
The Milkwhite Peaceriver
Of God's ether.

What it is

This is it. A little while ago Sierra asked me how I feel love and I had a hard time describing it. But this morning Mr. Denver did the explaining for me.

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Annie's Song

You fill up my senses
like a night in the forest
like the mountains in springtime,
like a walk in the rain
like a storm in the desert,
like a sleepy blue ocean
you fill up my senses,
come fill me again.

Come let me love you,
let me give my life to you
let me drown in your laughter,
let me die in your arms
let me lay down beside you,
let me always be with you
come let me love you,
come love me again.

Dear the World

To the people of Earth,

I would love to read your comments if you feel so inclined to post any. For the longest while I thought that nobody read my blog. Which was nice in a way because I could use it as my online personal journal. But a few people have told me recently that they enjoyed such and such post or that they were offended by this or that. I had no idea they even knew where to find my blog. So to you people I say "Prove it." Let me know what you think. This is a shameless plea for comments. I want to hear from you, people of Earth.

Love,

Garred

PS - Start with the poems. They're short and easy to read.

You Are...

I Am...

Shalom

O ellie, this is the heart

Mount Fuji

Skeletons

mine mine mine

Two Pears

Two Pears

(
two
yellow
pears hug
on a plate in
the kitchen
window)

mine mine mine

Dear Ellie,

This is Jesus. Who lived and lives.
He is the wiggling baby.
He is the gentle friend.
He is the humble healer.
He is the man on the cross.
He is the empty tomb.
He is the deliverer of prayers.
He is the singing crickets.
He is the whispering trees.
He is the winking stars.
He is the roof over our heads.
He is the warmth of your blanket.
He is the softness of your pillow.
He is your laugh when dad is happy.
He keeps you asleep when daddy cries.
And just as you are mine mine mine,
He will always be yours yours yours.

theunexpectedmiracleofsundayfebruary14th2010.

If you want to do something invaluable for yourself today, put on your puffycoat of gratitude. I realized that there is no greater gift that we are able to give in this life. It is a gift we give to both ourselves and the Lord. A salve for our own souls. A tiny basket of glory for Christ. With gratitude we rise above the mucky muck of dumdum troubles and see life for what it really is. We find the happiness of a thousand points of light in our past. We see the bright new star of today. We allow our spirits to comprehend the endless nebulaic blessings that are yet to come. Gratitude is a rope we throw over all time and space, corralling all Eternity into the singularity of our heart. It is the tailor that fits us with the three piece suit of faith, hope, and charity. It is fried potatoes that finally taste good again.

The Pomegranate Heart

"And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it became pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make her wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat..."

"... and I, the Lord God, said:...cursed shall be the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life. Thorns also, and thistles shall it bring forth to thee....By the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, until thou shalt return unto the ground - for thou shalt surely die..."

Opening scene: A haggard little garden in the foreground. The sun rises on the Euphrates in the background. An old woman stands up with weeds in her hands and wipes blood from her fingers on a dingy apron. An old man takes the weeds from her hands and kisses her on the cheek.

Act I: Later that night at the dinner table.

Eve: My wrists done swelled up agin. Don't know if I'll be fit to clear 'dat garden b'fore Sundee.

Adam: You will. Last week it was yo knees. This week it's the wrists. You'll git it done. With time to spare, I reckon.

Eve: Sometimes I wonder if you're just fakin' belief in me just so I help you wit yo chores when I'm done wit mine.

Adam: Sometimes I wonder if your just fakin' yo pains so that you don't hafta. Ain't no way you could clear a whole gard'n by yoself if you wuz really in all 'dat pain. Only a goddess could do dat. Or an angel.

Eve: (blushing) Boy, I swear. Sometimes I don't know if yo extra good to me, o extra bad.

Adam: Extra good, I reckon.

(A baby cries from off stage)

Act II: Several years later. 4 children are running around the house. The house is much larger and more comfortable now. Outside the window lie rows and rows of perfect crops. Eve sits in a rocking chair sewing a patch on some small pants. Adam enters stage left with a broken board in his hand.

Adam: Guess what 'dis is?

Eve: Oh no. Don't tell me Cain was out hittin his 'lil brother agin wit 'dat ol' stick.

Adam: Guess agin. This time I wuz da one doing the beatin'. 'Dat Cain of yours done told me off fer feedin' the cows by hand. He says I'm wastin' ma time doin it 'dat way. Says I can just throw some hay on the ground 'n da cows end up findin' it anyways.

Eve: Ya?

Adam: Ya. An he says he's thought up all sorts a ways to make it so he don't gotta work so hard. He says life should be a piece a cake. So I tells him how ev'ry time he feeds the cows, I gotta tend 'em back to health for weeks cuz a all da rocks they eatin' with da hay. He just looks at me an says, "That's yo problem. Not mine." I ask 'im if he ever wants ta be great some dee. Ya know what he says t' me? He says, "Great sounds like alotta work. Let Abel do da great stuff if you so set on havin' big shot kids. I'll be workin' three days a week an' mindin' ma own bizness."

Eve: So ya got 'im good wit 'dat stick, uh?

Adam: You bes believin' I did.

Act III: Adam-Ondi-Ahman. A great green field is filled with sons and daughters of Adam and Eve.

Adam: (Finishing his speech) 'Dis I seal upon ev'ry one a you, with all my love. You my children, an' I will always be yo grateful dad.

(Adam sits down and Eve begins to speak seated in her rocking chair on the grass hill.)

Eve: Oh my. (Pause) Oh my oh my. If all you ain't a sight. Y'all know I can't stand, but seein' y'all like dis makes it hard ta even speak. A mother's heart is a life all its own. If you'z ever held a baby, y'all know 'dis. It beats diff'rent 'cuz it's heavy wit love. Children, inside a me is a great red pomegranate. I got no doubt it looks all weather'd 'n worn 'n ugly on da outside. It's gotta hard coverin' 'cuz dere's so much rain 'n so much angr'y wind always blowin' at it. An' it's worked 'n worked 'n worked till there ain't nothin' pretty 'bout it. But inside...oh mercy. Inside is ev'ry single one a y'alls. Ev'ry last one. You each a seed in my heart. A sweet bless'ed seed all full 'a life 'n promise. An' each one a yo seeds is wrapped in a wet blanket a tears. That's how I keep'd y'all safe. I work'd. An' I cried. An' dere ain't no otha way to love a seed mo' than 'dat. Yo daddy done bless'd y'all real good. I can't say mo than 'dat. He is da best daddy you ever gonna know. I promise ya 'dat. We both made some real hard choices 'fore y'alls was born. But I tell ya this... ev'ry single one a ya alone woulda been worth it. Ain't no work dat ain't pleasure when it's done for love.

Act IV: Modern day. Everything is clean and ritzy. Every amenity you could imagine. There are throngs of children. Me. You. Some do great things because they are brave, hard things precisely because they are hard. Others shrink with fear.

Girl: (In prayer) Mother Eve, I was not called to be great. This boy that wants me to marry him...I mean he's great and all...but that's just it...he's so set on being great. He wants to change the world. I admire him for it and all, but that's just not me.

Mother Eve: Why ain't 'dat you?

Girl: I don't know. That's not what I want. I just want to have my own little life and take care of my own little family. There's too much out there anyway. I can't change any of it. I think Heavenly Father just wants me to be small.

Mother Eve: Ya know, 'dat was a lie started a long long time ago by someone I sure did love. He hid his God-given goodness from da Lord and called it 'umility. 'Cept der weren't no 'umility 'bout it. He jus wanted to do is comf'table thing and have da Lord accept it as his best. He gave a bit here 'n dere but he wasted most 'a what da good Lord gave 'im cuz he was scared. Or lazy. Or some'n. He had a comf'table life 'cuz a all da work his parents done did. But he never did da work hizself. 'Dat ain't 'umility. Dat's jus takin' an never giv'n back.

Girl: I'm not like that. I JUST WASN'T CALLED TO BE GREAT.

Mother Eve: Then you wuz not called to be one a my children.

Girl: But we're all your children.

Mother Eve: Then you wuz called. (Pauses while she gazes out over the landscape. Finally she turns her head with decision and repeats while nodding assuredly) Then you wuz called.

Girl: (...)

Closing scene: A haggard little garden in the foreground. The sun sets on the Euphrates in the background. A young woman is bent over, struggling to pull the last weed out of a long furrow. A young man stands next to her, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief. She stands up with the weed in her hand, takes a red handkerchief out of her back pocket, and wipes a smudge off the young man's cheek. She gazes at him for just a moment. And smiles.

The Radleys (redux)

We all, in a self-censoring way, believe we are Scout. We aspire to be Atticus - strong, noble, and godly - but realize we will always be children looking up to an ideal. But here's the hard truth: we are all just Boo Radleys. Nothing more, and nothing less. We are all forsaken, misshapen, scared, and scary. We hide out in the dark corners of our lives - coming out only when there is no one to truly see or recognize us - to drop small pieces of ourselves in the hollow of a tree. And in the end, if we do anything worthy or noble, it is to expose our ugly selves in order to carry another. This is love. This is that vulnerable, lonely, awkward power that alone coerces us out of our house at the end of the lane.

Jesus in the Valley

There is no pain that I have felt. No sorrow that I have had to endure. Mine is a blessed life. Ridiculous with overabundance. To believe that I have suffered anything is the grossest forsaking of love. There are those that suffer. There are those who do not live the lives that we live. May Jesus live in the valley of their hearts.

In about March 1946, less than a year after the end of the war, Ezra Taft Benson, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, accompanied by Frederick W. Babbel, was assigned a special postwar tour of Europe for the express purpose of meeting with the Saints, assessing their needs, and providing assistance to them. Elder Benson and Brother Babbel later recounted, from a testimony they heard, the experience of a Church member who found herself in an area no longer controlled by the government under which she had resided.

She and her husband had lived an idyllic life in East Prussia. Then had come the second great world war within their lifetimes. Her beloved young husband was killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland, leaving her alone to care for their four children.

The occupying forces determined that the Germans in East Prussia must go to Western Germany to seek a new home. The woman was German, and so it was necessary for her to go. The journey was over a thousand miles (1,600 km), and she had no way to accomplish it but on foot. She was allowed to take only such bare necessities as she could load into her small wooden-wheeled wagon. Besides her children and these meager possessions, she took with her a strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.

She and the children began the journey in late summer. Having neither food nor money among her few possessions, she was forced to gather a daily subsistence from the fields and forests along the way. She was constantly faced with dangers from panic-stricken refugees and plundering troops.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months, the temperatures dropped below freezing. Each day, she stumbled over the frozen ground, her smallest child—a baby—in her arms. Her three other children struggled along behind her, with the oldest—seven years old—pulling the tiny wooden wagon containing their belongings. Ragged and torn burlap was wrapped around their feet, providing the only protection for them, since their shoes had long since disintegrated. Their thin, tattered jackets covered their thin, tattered clothing, providing their only protection against the cold.

Soon the snows came, and the days and nights became a nightmare. In the evenings she and the children would try to find some kind of shelter—a barn or a shed—and would huddle together for warmth, with a few thin blankets from the wagon on top of them.

She constantly struggled to force from her mind overwhelming fears that they would perish before reaching their destination.

And then one morning the unthinkable happened. As she awakened, she felt a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed the child. Though overwhelmed with grief, she knew that she must take the other children and travel on. First, however, she used the only implement she had—a tablespoon—to dig a grave in the frozen ground for her tiny, precious child.

Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old son died, either from starvation or from freezing or both. Again her only shovel was the tablespoon, and again she dug hour after hour to lay his mortal remains gently into the earth. Next, her five-year-old son died, and again she used her tablespoon as a shovel.

Her despair was all consuming. She had only her tiny baby daughter left, and the poor thing was failing. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her journey, the baby died in her arms. The spoon was gone now, so hour after hour she dug a grave in the frozen earth with her bare fingers. Her grief became unbearable. How could she possibly be kneeling in the snow at the graveside of her last child? She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.

In this moment of overwhelming sorrow and complete bewilderment, she felt her heart would literally break. In despair she contemplated how she might end her own life, as so many of her fellow countrymen were doing. How easy it would be to jump off a nearby bridge, she thought, or to throw herself in front of an oncoming train.

And then, as these thoughts assailed her, something within her said, “Get down on your knees and pray.” She ignored the prompting until she could resist it no longer. She knelt and prayed more fervently than she had in her entire life:

“Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in Thee. I feel, Father, amidst the desolation of my soul, an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of Thy Son, Jesus Christ. I cannot express adequately my love for Him. I know that because He suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because He broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return—together—to Thee.”

"Together - to Thee." This is the prayer. Of us all.

JS Bach

Whenever I listen to Bach I feel like I'm putting math inside of me. I've posted the full Suite No. 1 for Cello on the right of this page. See if it doesn't send your mind racing through the periodic table of elements. Or at very least a trip down integer alley.

PS - Mr. Bach deserves a more thorough treatment then this skimpy post. I will likely be adding to it in the next few days when I get a minute.

Around Eight-Thirty

I am never unfascinated when Ellie reads me a book. Every night, the red hen has wet legs. Or the hot dog plays with a bat. And every night I stare at a tiny face that is too young to comprehend but too smart to ignore. She finishes her books, and I start mine. The wild rumpus lays out over 3 whole pages and we growl and whoop and tear and claw and bang our knees like drums. We chase the wild things to bed. Then we lay down our own heads and say a prayer. She is thankful for daddy mommy grandma gretchen buela nana jesus. She asks for nothing. In the name of Jesus Christ. I kiss her on the forehead and close my eyes. She politely reminds me to kiss Tia the Lioness goodnight too. I kiss Tia. And Al. And Eleanor. And Giraffi. And Ellie one more time. She closes her eyes and races to sleep with an impossible grin on her face. Ellie’s face. The universe.

Los Pajaros (redux)

There's the awkward couple, the sober couple, the odd couple, the prideful man with the yearning girl, and the three happy happy happy couples. On a Saturday morning in the temple, I am blessed to see them all.

I came this morning simply because I was awake. Had I known that it would be the most apple-crisp golden delicious Autumn day in 28 years, I probably would have gone somewhere else. To the mountains. Or the park. Or my mother's backyard. But at 5am it is dark and still and equally as ominous as it is promising. So it was the temple. The safe choice, even on this most cranberry of days.

There in the Celestial room, a lone twenty-something early riser can feel quite like a curry on Thanksgiving day. Eccentric. Sweaty. Wholly out of place. But not today. For some inexplicable yet undeniably sensed reason, today is a good great granddaddy day. In fact, even here in the Casa de Dios, surrounded by angels and saints, I can only describe it as a bona fide damn fine day if there ever was one. For twenty minutes it is me. And the Samoan Queen sitting across the room. And no one else. And despite all of her grace and graciousness, the Queen does not give me even the slightest hint that the entire sum of life is about to be played out before my eyes.

In they come.

The most picture-perfect bride and groom I have ever seen. Not in contrasting black and white, but both dressed in the color of heaven. It is their faces and their hands. It is their eyes. They are not disgustingly happy. They are exultingly happy. Every inch of smile on that girl's face is equaled by that young man's own. I am happy just to see them. An unnoticed matron seats them on a couch and leaves them to their own best every moment of their life. There is no way that my presence could intrude on this. From where they sit, I do not exist. Even the Queen has been mentally exiled. There are just smiles, and faces, and hands, and eyes.

More couples are ushered in, one by one. This one is sober. Stoic and self-assured. There are no smiles like the first couple, but there are plenty of hands. And eyes. And happiness does not skip a beat. Then comes an awkward couple. Both standing on stork legs and looking on with deer eyes. But they are not uncomfortable like I think. They are just funny. They make each other laugh. They poke and they coo and they smiles smiles smiles. Then another perfect picture. Then a middle-aged man a full 6 inches shorter than his middle-aged bride-to-be. But when they sit there is no shortage of eyes. Or hands. Or even feet for this giddy couple that has been waiting oh-so-long for this perfect October day. I am glad they waited. They are glad they waited. God is glad they listened.

Then comes in a kid. His hand lays open at his side. A girl with a face like a New England beach grasps desperately at his lifeless hand. Her eyes are full of clouds. It has been raining. And I suspect there will be many more rainstorms running down that Cape Cod face long after I'm gone. She is searching for his eyes. He is coolly scanning his surroundings with all the false bravado of a junior high drop out. He is probably 25 years old. He is 12 years old. For the second time today, I swear in my head. "Damnit boy! What are you looking for? What on this Great Green Earth could you be looking for at this moment? Is it your confidence? If so, you have at most ten minutes to find it before you'll need it every day for the rest of your life."

I take a few breaths and continue my mind lecture.

"Listen, I don't know you and I am not a prophet. I don't have to be to tell you that the entire sum and substance of what you're looking for in this life is standing by your side. If you will stop being cool for twenty minutes, you will make your grey-eyed promise the happiest girl in the world. And she will work to make the infinite minutes that follow happier than you can imagine. For one day, for twenty minutes, be a dork. Smile. Cry. Feet hands face eyes kiss. This is it. She. The Joie de Vivre. She is about to promise you her existence. And more importantly for you to understand, you are about to promise her yours. Let her crush you with those grey eyes. Let her swallow you with that quivering line of a smile. She. And then everything."

And then...

They sit down. She buries her head in his neck. He gives a quick glance around...throws caution to the wind...puts his arm around her shoulders...rests his head on hers...and closes his eyes. Queen looks over and gives me a knowing smile. Jesus looks down, his eyes also closed, and nods.

***

I walk out of the temple to find that the dark morning has turned to Autumn. The air is light and the light is flowing in amber sheets across the square. Two birds carefully raise out of a golden ball of oak. The branch where they sat shutters for an instant at the memory of their weight. With no more communication than the happy beating of their wings, the birds trace a winding and parallel path through the sky until, sooner than I can fathom, they disappear over the temple.

skeletons

I finally dreamed again.
And although I was only a skeleton
it felt good to breathe again.
Standing on an empty highway
my whitebones clinked as I shivered
in the 6am grayfog.
I stooped down and hugged my knees
to keep the heat in.
But there was no heat to keep in.
There was no heart.
No brain or lungs or grimywarm guts.
Just skeleton me. And a pair of eyes
to see a dried leaf rattle
through the cage of my chest.
And I remembered what Kathy said.
That every boy is a skeleton.
And every girl is a heart.


That every boy is a skeleton.
And every girl is a heart.