The days feel a little grey without you,
and realizing how much color you bring
to our lives makes me remember the first day
your mother and I spent entirely
in each other's company.
Even more, I remember how it felt.
We walked all the way downtown, talked
about the books we loved, shared a meal
at an unassuming restaurant with
a flimsy menu and and crumbling brick walls.
Later, your Tama would tease me
that it was a good thing that I hadn't been
trying to impress her, because if I had...
well, that restaurant wouldn't have done it.
In the living of it, that day felt charged
with an energy of its own, as if
nothing that happened could affect
the underlying promise of good things to come.
And it was only after she left, as I sat
on the secondhand loveseat
in my railroad car apartment,
that I realized that she
had been what made the day
sing.
(For D, who is fortunate enough
to be a child whose story begins with a love story.)
to be a child whose story begins with a love story.)
