THE DAY OF SKIPPING CHICKPEAS
I miss you more than I did Friday—
twice as much as Saturday.
The sky looks flat. It’s not quite blue.
The sun is slightly faded, too.
The white clouds skip along too fast
this busy, bright, coquettish, restless
afternoon that wouldn’t let me
reel it in freewheeling past
the garden gate on roller skates.
I needed time to take its measure.
Well. I can inspect it when it’s
yesterday, but then today is
in my lap, till it too races
off and joins its sisters in the
hinterlands. My darling Addy’s
party dress is wiser far than
I. It tells me: Love your life—
and I’m reminded, if I don’t like
macaroons, don’t buy them. Well.
I miss you mightily, and since my
wings are resting, let us test the
only transportation left—my
teleporting nexus, which can
drop you at my door in seconds,
whereupon I’ll take you shopping,
followed by a supper for the
gods... an unpretentious little
place I patronize because it’s
celebrated for falafel—
not a favorite of mine—I’ve
yet to meet a chickpea that could
look me in the eye. But you have
such a fondness for falafel.
Equally it pleases me to
say
it—that, bambino, Addis
Ababa.... Among
life’s most
surprising, small, exquisite treats is
rolling words around one’s teeth like
lemon drops and savoring the
mix of flavors, sweet and sour,
a hint of salt, and not too much of
each. Well. I have designated
the ensuing twenty-four-and-
one-half hours (in case I’m running
late) YOUR DAY, commencing
when you
rematerialize at eight past
six precisely. Summoning my
chariot and pilot, steering
leisurely along the scenic
route, arriving at the diner
just in time to snag a window
booth. You order your falafel;
I say Coffee, please, and hold
the
chickpeas. Well.
We talk a bit of
politics before we give it
up for more extraordinary
topics, such as cotton sheets and
whether angels pray for blades of
grass in clumps or singly. You say
Individually, and I
agree. We laugh like babies in a
bubble bath at everything—
Check out the natty gentlemen,
mustachioed and sporting beanies
(Yes! The sort with
whirlies),
representing, we believe, the
International Convention
for the Preservation of
Anachronistic Facial Hair and
Playful Headwear L-T-D. Well.
Vastly entertained, we spend a
most relaxing evening, being
utterly at ease; without a
reason to do otherwise than
as we fancy, inasmuch as
we’ve eternity to talk,
falafel’s economical, and
best of all, imagining is
free. P.S. Did I forget to
say I miss you? Well. I do.
Exceedingly. Love,
Me
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