Lentils

“No reason to lie when you can shock them with the truth. It’s more interesting anyway,” you said.

Lentils, cooked or not, are still lentils. They just smell different. I squeezed them tightly in palm of my hand.

“Anthony, why’d you give me cooked lentils? That’s so weird. Why are you so weird?” He always loved lentils. The red kind, not the green.

“Anthony. Darling. Let’s walk up this hill and catch the last sunset together. It’ll be worth it. I’ll buy you a home by the sea, just like you wanted.”

You asked me why.

“Because that’s what people do when they love each other, Anthony. That’s what we do.”

For the unforgettable – Ecuadorian flute bearing – MJ.

-mh-

Maps

Home is where the heart is, so they say.

But where is my heart? When the wind blows tumbleweed across the cracks in the sand, they pick up debris as they roll on by. Where is my heart?

“It is not down on any map,” as they say – “true places never are.”

And home isn’t the same anymore; it never was. It can be fleeting

flying

feeling.

We and the river are constant change – ever-evolving, turning a new leaf just as tiny roots stretch their newborn legs into soft, brown soil.

And still we chase, gather, hunt. Nostalgia. Birth. Rebirth. Brown, cracked leaves, brown leaves covered in rain.

(Is home an illusion?)

I reach down, frantically picking up dark brown leaves, shoving them in my pockets – some crack in my hands, some are wet and pliable and I gather them, desperate and hungry – barely noticing the feeling of wet earth between my toes.

“Home.” “Home.”  “Home.”

quickly!

gather

…please.

My pockets are full, bulging with dead leaves.

Is it down on any map?

(True places never are)

I just want to feel safe in the constance of your smile.

Something about the dirt between my toes tells me I’ve got nothing to do but be.

Something about the earth beneath my feet tells me I’m here.

Something about the sand inside my pockets tells me it’s now.

Home is where the heart is. But where is my heart?

I stuff my hands in my pockets and squeeze the soft brown leaves. If I close my eyes and breathe in the deep forest air, I know my heart is in the feeling I get when I hear you say,

“One of the happiest moments in my life was watching the sun rise this morning.”

My heart is in your laughter.

My heart is in “I love you.”

 

It was then that I knew,

Honey, I’m home.

Home

stop my heart from beating

where has it all gone

stop

you don’t know how you don’t

read me a story, count all the minutes

between when the doors closed

the sheets, the covers

i told you when these day late hours

rusted over

the only things left would be

that empty blanket and

where she sighed, happily

i told you that i’d always remember

our favorite songs

and gazing up at the ceiling

when you laughed and

thumbed through that magazine mindlessly

cause in those in between hazy daylight hours

was where my heart was

The Warm Hours

  When the warm hours rust over and slowly turn to the steely sounds of rushing and of cold and water droplets leaking from dusty pipes
I will remember the nights we sat on my old apartment floor reminiscing and pressing our toes together to show that we understood.
I will remember the beach and the way that sand carried through the wind and how your laughter echoed across the paths of gulls as she ran out to play.
I will think upon those days of light footed exploration where foggy ponds became magical landscapes
Where we ran through the docks head on into our futures.
I will remember the way you laughed as you skipped gingerly across those mossy rocks. You always had a way of making everything worthy of a smile.
And I will remember all the nights you called me and told me, “Honey, everything will be alright.”
– It will be alright
just so long as you will always be my happy conversation
The one who forgets to put the chicken in the freezer
But that has never stopped me from loving you –
– it never has-
It has only ever made me love you more.