The hardest part of softness

Is letting the harsh war of life

Break you into it

Perhaps you wonder why I finally met with her

She sat across from me with her lips pinked in

Her hands sort of stroking the black leather of her purse

The hair was round brushed and tucked in like it had been groomed that very morning 

She complimented my half brushed hair sort of wildly sitting there about my shoulders 

I think hair and shoes have a way of reflecting a person and mine were leather and covered in paint splatters and hadn’t been polished in years 

We both ordered the classic, with coffee

Discussed Christmas picking at our over medium over hard eggs 

She sat there, 

 rye bread torn apart so she could eat the stomach of it 

Explaining her daughter and grandkids inadequacy (when compared to how she would do it)

I remember how she explained to me the way her daughter wiped off the counter, leaving little streaks of water to sit on the surface and how she could never consider that correct 

I told her

Someday that will be me, 

and I will also not keep my yard as nicely as yours was 

So please, then, do not judge me like you’re judging her hedges 

She responded as if she never would, ever 

And how she understood people had different priorities and it all made sense. 

I did not believe her. 

I don’t have a lot to offer 

But I do believe that whatever you do have to offer 

(At whatever capacity, that is—big or small)

It should be given 

This, I believe, 

Is how you live life in a way

That is full. 

She sorta sat back into her hips and let her eyes at it

The door was open and Plainfield was busy that day

It sat there, propped against the wall and I wondered if it felt embarrassed with all of the eyes 

A few artists names just fell out of her mouth 

like cuss words might on a sailor 

Like artist names might from a curator

It didn’t bother me 

Because I knew all of their names well

And felt quite professional being compared to them 

Her hair was flipping out everywhere, a section shaved underneath and her hands were dirty 

But it didn’t matter 

Because she saw it 

—What I was saying 

It might be today 

—The last day

What a rare gift to wake up 

Like he may not 

To be able to be given another day to make the world better 

If we can 

I forget too often that each breath is in fact 

A present 

And too often it takes someone dying for me to remember how incredibly grateful I am to be breathing 

Today 

I folded the earth 

It was over top of the bulbs 

Tulips and anemones 

Next to the dahlia and the peony bush 

Sometimes the best things take such long extended preparation 

And dirt under the nails 

The fire he built inside felt like winter 

It was so warm and alive 

Much like the deep part i uncovered 

There where i found a worm, thriving 

Hidden down below where the earth still felt warm

“I LOVE YOU” I scream from the shore 

It carried out onto the river 

“I have 30% battery,” he says back, and I hear everything. 

“BUT I LOVE YOU” I scream back. 

“I love you too.” He says, as he checks his phone for service, battery, switching it back to airplane mode. 

I think men and women are very different. 

Hooking up the trailer to the Jeep, he left the heat running for me with the door open, my emergency lights on, and 80’s music on high. His favorite. He always turns up the radio when it’s a song from the 80’s. Usually it’s too loud for me but he dances to it and I let him until I can’t handle it anymore. 

I picture him On the pontoon, the rain falling over him and his bright colored beanie, the engine faltering like it does, with his paddle in hand just in case

I drive the Jeep with the trailer over the The speed bumps past the skater boys skating in the rain into the park where the boat launch is. 

It is November and we are procrastinators. 

There are ducks there 

And one steamy beige car with two men smoking

Max calls me twice on the way to find my location and drops me a pin and texts. It is all within 10 minutes. He instructs me on “how to maneuver the trailer.”

I maneuver the trailer just fine, thank you. I’m doing great. 

We live on the river. He climbs from the pontoon knee deep, his eyes focused on the job. He does tell me that I did a great job maneuvering the trailer and I accept the compliment. I think I surprise him a lot actually. 

He climbs out, hair wild and mustang like I like it. He is really quite handsome. I remember how much I like him. 

He takes off his boots which are full of river water (I empty them and tuck them under the heater in the car) and he climbs around in his black socks; he checks some things, soaked to his knees. Getting all of it adjusted, putting the anchor in a safe location,  handing me his wet socks, he finishes barefoot. 

“Yeehaw,” he says, climbing in, content. 

We park the damn thing and it takes forever. I’m annoyed if I’m honest. It’s raining and I’m trying to help & I’m cold. Sometimes he tells me how to direct him and I hate all these things. I want to complain. 

I feel the spirit suggest that I simply thank him. 

And so I do. 

And the rest of the afternoon carries on just fine.