Sometimes I remember too well. A memory like mine is a blessing and a curse. A wonder and a whacked out weasel who won't let go.
It helped me give birth to this poem. I enjoy its story telling, but the story itself continues to tear at the last vestiges of a scab. Ouch. Photo below is courtesy of:
Some rights reserved under the Creative Commons license. Photo by By newneonunion Jennifer Brandel
I missed the green arrow
when I raised my eyes from the memory minestrone the yellow arrow had spoken, "Too late." It was a different airport. Flight: Phoenix to LAX. Southwest. Bargain basement lure of "Stay Close! Come. Come close. Here. With me." Phone rings in the used-to-be-my-Hollywood- apartment. He had fallen. Asleep. Wasn't on his way. Yet, to the airport. I waited. A pink and white floral jumpsuit, watching a parade of taxis and shuttles for people who hadn't fallen asleep. Who had arrived on time. Now, decades later. Different. Stewed tomatoes replaced jumpsuits and celery urban apartments are swept clean. No more blonde hair, no more company cars, no more waiting. Closeness is avoided. "Stay away! Go! Go away. Go. From me." The yellow arrow had spoken.
Too late.
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Great contrasts!
Posted by: Stan Ski | April 03, 2011 at 11:12 AM
Julie, this is painful, waiting for someone and them not arriving and in the end, no more waiting.
It is a wonderfully contrasted poem.
Pamela
Posted by: pamelasayers | April 03, 2011 at 11:22 AM
Amazing what fine line details we remember. And the consequences when we do. Very evocative write,
Elizabeth
Posted by: Elizabeth | April 03, 2011 at 05:40 PM
I wonder if we remember everything the way it was or the way we think it was?
Nicely!!
Posted by: andy sewina | April 03, 2011 at 06:03 PM
You are lucky to have a great memory; mine is dreadful. It's why I record everything.
Loved the taxis for those who didn't fall asleep. Lovely detail.
Posted by: Tilly Bud | April 03, 2011 at 11:39 PM