a birthday gift, four years belated
in cheerful red paper that is torn
at aged edges. she never breaks a promise,
but she wonders if he even remembers
her. still, she owes him this much,
at least, because she still blames herself
for the scars he carved into his arm.

her mother's blue-checkered tablecloth
reminds her that this month holds
no holiday, no festivity but
a day she has yet to erase
from her calendar. and the words
echo in her mind, i am not a
stalker. and she is not, because

it has been four years since she
last saw him smile at her
misfortune, though she was glad
for the grin. i loved him once
she remembers. his photo
would probably still stand on her shelf
if she cared to keep pictures
anymore, but she is somehow comforted
by the empty frames. simplicity
because even the squirrel in
the tree outside is too busy for her
to keep up with these days.

she is ten feet from the phone
with keys by the door, but she does not
even know where he lives
(though she still has his number)
i loved him once
she confesses to the sealed journal
in her hands, but she hides the present
in a drawer with her courage,
promising herself she will not break
her promises. come winter, when she is
starving for self-pity, she will
remember where she stored her strength.
but not today

12/11/2002

Author's Note: The lovely and talented Christina Gleason proposes the assignment: person sitting at a table, alone. he or she is fondling an object that doesn't seem to belong to the table. describe the person, the object, the table, the area seen outside the window. use no monologue. use no rhyme. use no abstracts. use no comments. mention two colors. mention two objects away from the table. use a street address for the title. and, of course, have an event unfold. How did I do?

Posted on 12/11/2002
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell