Because Today I Remember You

And the first time we met,
You in a green laughing Buddha t-shirt, blowing bubble gum,
Me wrapped in heavy brown cotton veil down to my knees.

How different we were.

I remember sitting down at dinner table for the first time with you.
Discussing work, God, and rain forest. Mainly God.

I remember you picking me up from the floor at night,
Sobbing.
I couldn't hear God back in my prayers now,
That was what I said to you.
And you just let me cry in your arms,
Until I found peace in sleep.

I remember you falling sick.
All the hospital visits,
The singing doctor, the Healer,
Even the spiritual cleansing we did out of desperation.

I remember meticulously planning that surprise,
Talking to your Dad and to Ingrid,
All the rush of adrenaline
As I got one airport closer, and closer.

I remember the thick heavy bell on your red front door.
How I fell in love with that door.
Did I ever tell you that?
I fell in love with that door, the Tibetan prayer flags you had on the porch,
The berries we harvested at the side garden,
The rose bushes, and the cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.

I fell in love with that tree the same way I fell for you when I saw you dancing in the subway.
Doing pirouettes for strangers.

Have I told you I am sorry for how I was sometimes?
How immature and fearful I was.
And you had to break the hard shell while walking on thin ice.



I remember seeing your pain when you fell out of love,
And how agonizing it was for me to accept it.
You knew it would wipe me out.
Yet I am grateful we did not put on our cruel masks
The way I had to with my current separation.

Today I remember you
Even though I live with constant reminders of you
For working at the same place we met,
All five years after we separated.

 Today I saw a bird perched on a lamp pole.
Alone,
And I remember you.