You can’t stitch together what’s not been pierced, and these memories do pierce me. I bind them up, chain-sewn through the piercings, and think about those scraps of Moroccan leather you had tooled with an awl—what a beautiful, wine-dark cover they’d have made for this retelling of our stories.
Except we didn’t really tell stories, did we? No, we sat together, dug Johnson grass out of your garden together, watched the late afternoon light as it left gold coins strewn on your living room rug, together.
My friend, my friend, it always seems that if I had the right set of tools, I could take that lock, finesse it open, that lock that keeps thee from me. But I don’t, I can’t. And anyway, you’d laugh and tell me to get outside where the rain lilies are blooming, use that dull awl to punch holes in the caliche, plant some lily seeds and some fresh, feathered dreams.