These Threads

These Threads

We were healthy and strong, moving forward and sideways in

our lives when they intersected.

Often careless, excesses were not unusual.

We had pasts that were not so far behind us

that we couldn't see them with a casual glimpse over 

our shoulders.

There was something waiting

that would bring us both to our knees, 

each in our own time. 

And then

the uncertainty was agonizing:

Once in the desert with wide skies that neither barked nor

whispered, simply waited with the wild horses and withered

cactus, hovering landscape with something always moving out of the corner of an eye.

Sometimes you came inside and laid your head on my chest just to hear me breathe.

You would go out and walk and wander,

or wonder

because we were so far from any place where anyone might hear us call out.

We never called out. We just waited it out for days. 

And then again in a crowded city hospital, so busy

that I had to take notes just to

keep track of the comings and goings.

We moved in, sort of.

With stacks of magazines and extension cords that kept us connected

to everyone else. 

 I crawled in beside you each night

and pulled you close,

a fragile frame, listened to you breathe, never submitting to

wonder if we would land again someday

in some other place like here, this place, our home,

waiting for the clock to welcome still another year

together.