Me and you

I see me and you sitting on a park bench somewhere.
Might be in New Hampshire, Vermont or Maine.
Maybe even on the West Dennis Beach.
We’re just sitting. Me and you covered in a flannel grey world; our lives now gone silver.
I’m still in love with you and you with me because that’s what we signed up for. And we’re still signed up.
We’ll talk about the many days gone by and people we love that are no longer here and you’ll cry. And I’ll cry.
But they’re happy tears of the stuff that we got right, the things we always agreed on and as a ‘Mom and Dad’.
Time has a way of making you look at things from a different perspective.
And God only knows that we have perspective these days.
While we sit, I lean over and smell your hair in a flirty and funny way and say ‘gee, your hair smells terrific‘ because it does.
And I know that deep down you like that I notice anything about you at this point in our lives.
Truth is, I still do.
In my mind, it’s fall and the leaves are raining down in sheets of tangerine orange, copper brown, apple reds and
‘Hannah-Banana’ yellows.
You mention that we have some raking to do and I nod in agreement.
It’s in that moment that I feel something in my heart, a bittersweet knowing about our life story and the enormity of all things we’ve shared and endured.
It’s also in that moment that I realize that there’s no one else in my life that I could ever love more than you.
And I also realize how much I hate raking leaves.

~m

ps. wrote this about a year ago. Just found it tonight.

pps. this post was inspired by my daughter, Sarah

 

 

Dear Meryl

There’s a place for you deep inside my heart, a room filled with wondrous things; beryl blues, setting sky purples, soft sunflower yellows, sherbet orange velvets and vivid reds of every hue, a fractal rainbow complete but yet not fully formed, much like you.
There are a billion brilliant stars waiting to be wished upon, rivers to be crossed, oceans to be discovered and stories to be told, bedtime books to be read.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you; think about what the colour of your eyes will be, the smell of your sweet and beautiful innocence, the sheer weight of you resting softly in the safety of my arms.

You were born in love, a love that transcends time and space but still has an unknown and occasionally untimely schedule to keep.
You may not know it but I’ve already made promises to you, hidden secrets that lay bare on the waiting shelves that line this quiet room, a sacred place that whispers your name from the rising of the sun to its dipping into the distant palette of the waiting horizon.
I close my eyes and dream of the things you might be dreaming of right now.
And oh, dear little one you must dream.
My prayer is that my heart is big enough to hold all of you in it, to be a safe harbour that is always clear on even the stormiest of nights.
My heart sings to you with the softest of lullabies, maybe keeping some of the dissonance of life far away from your waiting ears . . . for now.
I realize that’s an unrealistic hope at best but it’s a hope just the same.
When I finally hold you, I also understand that I will never be the same again.
I can only pray to be better. And somehow that’s okay with me.
As A.A.Milne said, “Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
This room is waiting and you are holding the key.

Grampa