We were strolling along in downtown Seattle, going
no where in particular.
It strikes me as so poignant
that we’re looking in opposite directions.
I remember, feeling restless –
(and quietly disappointed) that day.
I had expected something else
(I don’t know what, precisely), but not what showed up.
Meanwhile, He was content.
With hands sticky from a yogurt snack
and a day that was warm and bright,
his intense and perfect face gazes
across the street where
life “on that side”
was so intriguing that in fact, yes
yes, in fact
he was tugging (just a bit) – as if to say,
“Hey Mama, let’s go look over there!”
what stands out in one’s memory after sixteen years:
small damp fingers,
deep restless sighs,
the sound of shoes on dry cement,
the need – no matter how separate our immediate desires –
to stay connected to each other,
and the belief that holding hands
would keep everything essential intact.