In leu of a long blog post this week, I have scavenged through my writings over the past year or so and have found a fictional poem I wrote for a class my Freshman year. Enjoy! Oh, and happy 4th to those in the USA!
Written 9/23/17; Posted 7/5/18
The moment I saw him,
my life flashed before my eyes.
He would approach me with a drink and
I would try to be calm and collected
as my heart would throb inside my chest.
We would engage in conversation,
spitting wit back and forth like
brutalions ready for battle,
Except, this would be anything but war.
Our relationship would consist of
running back to the car for just one last
kiss, waking up in the morning
just to watch the sunrise over the
hillside at his parent’s house—
where we would stay for the weekend—,
walking to work with coffee in one hand
and each other in the other,
him eating the last bite of my cake
but smiling with crumbs still in his mouth
in such a way I had to forgive him,
loosing ourselves in not only the physical
but the emotional conversations we would
have late at night under the covers.
And the day he would ask me to marry
him would be the happiest day of
my life, at least until the actual wedding.
He would get down on one knee at our favorite
park—the one where we had our
first kiss and our first fight
where we fed a squirrel with our
left over sandwich bread after
a picnic—and declare his love to me
and I would try my best not to cry,
but as I whisper yes, the tears
of joy would drip onto the dried-up leaves.
I would invite everyone to the wedding—
cousins, friends, friends of friends,
people who went to high school, middle school,
elementary school with me—
and the people I really care about would come.
Our honeymoon would be amazing.
I would discover parts of him I never knew before.
The first night, we would spend certifying our marriage
with late night talks about our childhood
and our dreams like that one time he
cried over a turtle he accidentally ran over
with his brand new white Ford truck—
he would even shed a tear now, as my husband.
We would have kids, either biological or adopted,
probably both, about a year after our marriage.
Everyone would say we’re too young, but
a month or two into it, when we finally
understand the ropes or raising another human,
they would nod in approval as the children
grow and grow out of diapers and into college then
off to adulthood as they join us in the real world
of paychecks and careers and bills.
When our kids come to visit for Thanksgiving
and Christmas, they would bring their children and
we would play peek-a-boo and spoil the kids rotten
just like our parents did with our kids.
We be the oldest generation, the wise ones.
And he would sit our grandchildren down on his
lap and I would rest my head on his shoulder,
gently letting my eyelids drift down over my vision
as I play with his hair and listen to the story of how
we fell in love that one time at that one party
eons ago yet I am still discovering more and more
about him every single day half a century later.
And I see him grab a drink from the
bar and glance my way. I prepare,
take a deep breath, and wait for
him to come start the witty conversation
as I attempt to seem calm and
collected. As he walks over, my heart throbs
and I smile at him until he has passed me
and has handed the drink to another girl.
And the love of my life walks out the door
with all the memories of what could have been.