Free to Write

A rainbow flutter of wings among the cottonwood trees, and my mind orbits beyond reach, chasing woeful tales of clouds coming between friends.

If I could I would offer her my old Kewpie doll, but she would refuse, she a damsel of the bitter kind, who cannot forget past misunderstandings and her inventory of scars, all of it her own making. Still, in my quiet heart, a giddy madness.

I shall call her tonight with a leisurely story but tell her the truth that I miss her, that I miss her face bright like the moon, her Marilyn Monroe walk, her ladle stirring soup, drizzle on her cheeks, and rainhoods over our heads. Then maybe she'll say, "I miss you, too," while her sheepish smile would come and go at a trot. Just maybe.