School's Out For Summer

Dear Friends,

I very much, oh! so very much, love it here. There are items to discuss and confessions forthcoming, but for tonight there is something sweet and wild about the place with which I will not trifle, so I must internet-SHOUT congratulations to sweet Becca Jane and loyal, faithful Kenji-la, who are both now engaged (albeit not to each other) and as in love today as I wish them to be years from now on the other side of life. I can't say more; my heart's full of that sniveling sentimentalism I often reserve for, well, weddings. And "Cotton: The Fabric of Our Lives" commercials. Or William Shatner. You know how it is.

Love,

Me.

P.S. Thoughts about leaving can be all-consuming, and I would like you to know (you = whoever you are reading this, whether it's you running after me, hard on my heels as I pull away; or whether it's you I can no longer find when I turn the corner into the pasta aisle singing Meatloaf) that life is long, God is good, and we are all too human to go messing much with bitterness. I sort of maybe wrote y'all a little something on the matter because I've realized how small my heart can be, how niggardly I can be with words of appreciation and encouragement, and how jealously I can guard my time. This year, in particular, has been a bad one for keeping in touch with old friends. You know who you are because you've called and harassed me and yes, gosh darn it, we can get a croissant. Anyway. This one's for you. It's untitled and it's rough and it may even be ugly, but...

These are the things that you take on a journey:
a change of clothing, piano wire, and eyes that can be kind to children;
a July night spent wondering whether the rain will end,
your crazy cow-tow smile and old soul, a heart bigger than you know;
and -- if I am very, very good and you are feeling generous --
a picture in your mind's eye of me in this old news city,
hands on my hips or head in a book, following the path
the moon sets for me across the sea.

Some moment will come soon for those who love you
in a coffee shop, at your high school track, around a campfire
or down a stretch of backroads shared -- at a meal you would
have shared, had you been here. The house will be warm,
coats and scarves piled high on the bed, and we will all be
on our best behavior. The night lies close and expectant,
and yet --

I will start a story that you've always finished.
I will notice that you're not where you should have been
to catch the same look, to draw the same laughter,
to be quietly bemused by the befuddlement of our
general company not privy to the joke we share.

I will get up from my seat and leave the crowded kitchen
for my back door, slipping outside and shutting it fast behind me.
What can I give you, so far from me? What can I offer but the past,
kept in margins of books and in pictures hanging on my wall,
a quick hello you will not hear, a jab in the ribs you will not feel,
a prayer for your good life, and hope incorrigible -- a dress rehearsal
of all my best intentions.