Annulus
An old lady sits beside me on a park bench.
We stare at the trees in silence
as she chain smokes Marlboros.
She coughs
and I pity her lungs.
I try not to look at her or think of her,
but I cannot help but steal a glance.
To me she is wrinkles,
she is an amalgam of unfashionable clothing
worn at the knees and elbows.
She is liver spots and yellow fingernails.
She is gray hair, unkempt.
She is everything I dread becoming.
We sit and stare, still silent.
I should leave, but this woman holds an odd fascination.
So I stay and stare and wait.
I glance at her again.
She shifts, then glances back.
For the first time, I meet her eyes
and I can’t look away.
Between the penciled-in brows above and dark circles beneath,
there is life.
Unmistakable.
In this moment I see the story of all her years,
told not in decay but in the memory of creation.
In this moment she is vibrant,
she is dynamic,
she is
alive.
These eyes I see have seen
a lifetime:
four children raised one day at a time,
a thousand pot roasts prepared with love,
the last look at a brother who never returned from the war,
a husband with guilty eyes,
years of fake smiles and hidden tears,
the funerals of her dearest friends,
the legacy of grandchildren, growing older.
She looks away.
I exhale slowly
and stare so hard at the trees
that I swear I can see through the bark
and I count the rings underneath.
Summer in Kentucky
Sitting alone in the afternoon sun,
sipping on a sweet tea.
This is how I feel like I belong here
despite the accent that gives me away.
Soaking up the afternoon sun,
I make out horses across the street
strolling leisurely
within the confines of a white picket fence.
A black colt seems to catch my eye and I smile.
He seems to smile back.
By the handful, I pull up prickly blades of grass
just to scatter them across my bare feet,
the contrast of vibrant green against pale skin
reminding me of spring’s first thaw
when the earth first peeks through the snow.
Spring gave way to the long, lazy days of
heat and blue skies and sandals
more quickly than I was expecting.
Quiet suspicions that I can barely make out
remind me that soon this grass will be covered
with a blanket of crimson, orange, and gold.
But today I am
sitting alone in the afternoon sun,
sipping on a sweet tea.
