Scribbler's Cafe

Peace and Reconciliation

We sit in the hidden alcove in your parent’s backyard. Grapevines trail from the trellis above and impair our view of the lighted house. Our daughter is sleeping. Your father left us the wine and the radio and retired to his room. Your mother is somewhere cleaning.

You light a pipe and offer me a hit, which I accept because I’ll accept for others and I know that you miss me when you smoke alone. The afternoon sun fades and we find ourselves blanketed by stars. It is summer, the air is still warm. We feel held and comforted despite our lack of jackets or sweaters. We are silently waiting for me to break the subject. After an hour, I begin.

It was wonderful to feel wanted.

You nod and rest your hand on your knee. The candle between us flickers.

There are areas where we do not match. I imagined I could cultivate those things in you – craving for intellect and scholarship, a driving passion. Now I accept that I cannot.

You turn away from me slightly, eyes hardened. You take out a cigarette and light it. This smoke you do not offer to me. I turn away. We cross our legs and stare out into the darkness. The candle wanes. We sit still as stone. Even the mosquitoes have given up on us and now no longer buzz in our ears.

You say, My love will never be good enough.

I say, For what? To keep me? I am sitting here now.
We look at each other directly. My eyes blink, yours do not.

posted by Scribbler @ Thursday, August 19, 2004