Stranger, friend.

"Hello"

I say simply, using his name. 

He never looks at me. Even now he looks past me at the chapters of cookies lining the back wall and I wonder if he even heard me. 

"Thank you for serving today," he says, letting the wind of his suit coat brush my arm. 

It is always this way, 

Even

Last week when I touched his wife's belly in the dessert line and remarked at the color of his childs hair and how dark it's become 

Still his eyes travel past me, never on me 

Never resting on me 

I wonder sometimes 

Have I offended him in some way 

Or is it his careful way of making sure to stay home 

Or a habit he's created to protect himself from further conversation 

Maybe he hates small talk as much as I do

Tom.

There are always ham and cheese sandwiches sitting there on clear rigid trays 

The ham is pink, flesh 

Dead, unmoving 

Probably sitting there overnight in the fridge covered up waiting for today when everyone will walk by carefully touching the surface 

Weeping 

I see her press her head against his chest 

It stays there 

Going bright red and wet within seconds as she chases her chin up and down as if saying yes

Reliving a memory they just shared with her 

I can see her crawling beneath the sheets 

Trying  to see if his scent still lives there 

Wishing she'd never complained about the crusty salsa bowl

Or the dirty boxers left out in public places of the home 

Faith walks by, says a few words about her grief 

Her eyes are puffy, & well up with water 

She is balancing a plate of salad 

With a ham sandwich, the bread sitting on it crookedly 

I wish I could fix it

all of it

I heard two stories today 

One about how he trained for Israel 

His large frame steadily moving

Preparing 

His hair cropped across the top like a stage 

And how he tromped through the backyard to his neighbors to find the high schoolers skating on an ice rink 

The music blaring 

His intent had been to shut them down 

But as he stood there, watching (it was two a.m.) he realized that boys will be boys and I think he remembered being their same age once 

He simply waved 

Said how you boys doing 

And turned, Tromping back over the yard to home 

We all stand 

Arms crossed awkwardly not look to hovering or brooding but also 

Not too happy at the same time 

We hide desserts in back rooms carefully selected 

Casually walking passed the tables of salads 

And ham sandwiches 

Hoping the carrots will be gone so we can refill them 

There were plenty of sandwiches left 

I'll have you know 

Homer

There may be death in this lifetime 

Grief 

An abundance of weeping 

But 

When I am captured by this 

May I find that still there are pine trees 

Unending clouds trading shapes 

Let me find the tangled hands of branches 

The organ of the ocean and how it beats and beats and beats on the sand 

I have found that mountains are the same as anxiety medicine and the warmth of sun, consistent like the way our body ages or the way a wave can change the texture of a rock

This wild earth can tame a soul 

__ how Homer changed me 

Homer I love you

When we got here there were a lot of things happening 

Lindsey putting pieces of her ex husband back together in the other room, bits if electricity running through Jana's body, her, draping herself carefully into the bathwater, the room smelling like eucalyptuses, damp like after a rain. Emerging, she embalms herself in a full flannel pajama set and sprawls across my bed, whittling a series of thoughts together. 

Jeannie, is plugged into a wall, attached to a devise sucking her breastmilk from her very soul, reading facts about Alaska, about caribou, discussing the size of her belly after children. She sits there with her soft skin exposed, her long dark poneytail climbing over her collarbone down past her boob. 

Maybe it is not Homer that I love but the people who came here with me

Space and how I don't know what to do with it

Actually 

I told them 

Maybe you didn't think I would. 

Maybe you thought afterwards my organs would flood with peace. But instead, I'm terrified. 

What if my importance landed in that title, "teacher" 

What if without it I'm not really all that valuable or able 

What if I'm quitting because I'm afraid? 

What if I don't do photography because afterwards I'm waiting for a flood of applause and I don't always get that and so I quit it to "not do so many things" "not be so busy" 

But really it's because it often makes me feel like a failure like painting and hair also does 

... 

Or maybe God is asking me to 

"Make space" 

For people and intentionality, so my womb can hold a child, so I can exercise and not feel as though there is no time no excuse 

So I can cook my families meals more, and have space to be safe 

Warm

Cozy. 

Available. 

... 

Another lesson 

That my worth is not on what my hands produce but In the fact that I am 

Made in his image. 

Erase

"But what on earth will you do with all the pencil lines? "

She asked, next to me. 

"Will you erase them?" 

I looked at her like I had no idea what she was talking about. 

These mistakes

These pencils lines 

They were my favorite part. 

Abstracts.

I saw all the shapes of you come together 

The pink

The rage of red from childhood as the people who are supposed to lead you fell apart 

You taking your little hands trying so hard to fight for them and put it all together, I too understand this. 

I see the blue of your lake, the long swim that stretches out in front of you until you believe all that you're fighting against believing

I see the green of your fear and how it frames your loneliness that is shrinking

The line you've been waking that has been so confusing as to how you ended up here hopeless 

And the yellow and orange fostered in your belly that is tight like knots next to this purple, the hope that I see in your future as you slowly let the knot of your hand loosen

You do not see it. 

But I do. 

You

Tender like a donkey

Pink like a girl 

With a delicate 

Rose petal

Lions roar