Tag Archives: cowboy

I am a Comet

7 Jun

texas_sunsetSomeone check the lunar calendar, because there’s a resurgence of nostalgia in the atmosphere. Some tidal pull is triggering the release of countless missives from dusty old contacts, some of whom appear in my phone’s list of word-o-grams just moments after I’ve thought of them. Or in some squeal-inducing incidents, their syllables cross the screen at the precise millisecond that I think of them and happen to pick up the shiny device of telecommunications comfort.

Remind me there are more out there thinking of me. None of whom consistently, but all of whom with specific memories of what I said or how I was.

“I had a postcard from Pharmacy to send you, since you told me to send you a postcard, but realized that it would take too long to reach you before you’re in town.”

Did I request that of you? And when did I do so? Was it in February when I flipped hair over shoulder to start a turning progress and looked back to toss a stray comment that would cement the moment? It must have been then. I wanted you to see how different I look and I wanted a freeze frame in your memory. I guess it worked.

It sounds capricious, but really I will actually toy with the questions while the day evaporates. Putting softened butter into a bowl for a batch of cookies, I’ll scrape the spatula and smile sideways. I wonder if the divorce came through and now he’s writing.

And then the synapses respond to my sardonic rejection of his nostalgia with a sudden jolt of my own misty memories. The Cowboy scrawled some words this week. “I miss seeing you.” And I batted him away with my fake boyfriend, “I still gotta fella.” But now, sugar in the bowl, and the air outside feeling like humid summer that wrapped the carriage house last July, I do feel just a slight twinge connected with a perfect recollection of his smile. I bark a laugh that is actually his and stir the batter.

I am made up of these memories. I am part of theirs, and they are mine. Some people have one person they think of endlessly all day, one image that fills in all the meaning of the past. But I have a small crowd. So many moments each day are colored by a little vestige of a man I loved. And now the buffer seems to be full. I am forgetting postcard requests.

You, if you don’t act instantly, you will not catch me. If you really “take time to fall in love” like you say you do, you will miss me. I just flash by and approach orbit briefly, but soon enough I’ll be repelled back onto my own oblong course through the universe. I am on a long, long journey that will not see me near you again for such a long time. And as those days pass, I will accumulate debris and damage from contact, I will be bolstered by new matter, and I will release deadweight. It will fall away, streaking through the atmosphere and leave me lighter as I keep moving toward brighter objects.

Alight and Remain

5 May

I sit before you now the builder of a failed fire. The white charred bits of unburned logs are the brightest parts of the pitch-black firebox in my living room. Over the past hour, I stuffed three weeks’ worth of Sunday New York Times in there, trying to coerce two lonely logs to say farewell to winter with me, but they just wouldn’t catch.

The now-petrified hunks of crackling timber were porch dwellers until this evening, and I suppose they were probably damp with Texas humidity. Also, I didn’t have any kindling of any kind, not even dryer lint, which the son of a cowboy told me is a reliable fire starter.

My fire structure technique was way off, too. Sure, I opened the flue, step one complete. But I didn’t do a bed of newspaper on the grate, instead I just stuffed it underneath the metal bars. The aforementioned absent kindling was just a vestige of my imagination. And then the two logs… well they popped with laughter when I used my extra-long fireplace matches to try to introduce flame to the scenario.

So, at this moment, my apartment is the site of the world’s foremost exhibition of “all smoke and no fire.”

I always think I am about to set something on fire, but then I discover a lack of kindling. Eager to witness controlled destruction, I persist in my attempts to immolate, but the feebly arranged paper burns in huge gulps of flame without inspiring long-term ignition of the real wood.

“I’m unwilling to set this thing on fire and push it out to sea just yet,” I wrote but didn’t send to my love. He received the missive anyway and refused to annihilate “this thing we have so nicely and easily put together.”

When I prodded more and shoved more newspaper under the grate, piling on printed words twisted into vain attempts to mimic kindling, he shrugged it off. “I’m not worried about anything between us.”

He is the kevlar and I am the flint.

Heart Racing

29 Apr

“So are there harnesses? Or just regular seatbelts?” I kept my eyes low, looking at his shoulder instead of his face, and then turned back over my own shoulder to see if I could find a strap of any kind.

“Nah, they’re aren’t any seatbelts. We just ride, and if we roll we roll.”

There may have been a significant vacuum in my silence as I gazed at the sharp corners of the sun-grayed asphalt track stretching to the edges of the horizon in front of us.

“Nahhhhhhhh,” he laughed, glancing his hand off my left knee lightly but grasping it just enough to knock it into to my other knee. “I’m just messin’ with ya!”

Hearing the exact cadence of The Cowboy, I felt myself relax into the safekeeping of a Texan. I may have only met you two minutes ago, but I know you. You’re gentle and smart and fast and tough and soft and protective, and you will not roll this car with me in it.

Pertinent Premonition

26 Feb

He was rolling my ankle in his hands when he looked up and smiled that clear prairie sky appreciation and responded to my polite dismissal with, “You have all these layers, and there’s more for me to lose.” It was dreamspeak, and seconded later by another character who said, “People have a version of you, but there’s always more.”

Waking, I scribbled it all down. When your subconscious decides to flatter rather than insult, you gotta take notes.

A couple days later, the Cowboy was here in waking life on my sofa, resting his hand on my shin across his lap. I was informing him of my new commitment, detailing the terrain of the trifle-free zone around my heart. He worked several angles of negotiation, seeking permission to be just the one thing I was doing wrong, doing to harm myself. But I can’t, I can’t, because I have these potentially good things happening.

He nodded, and inquiring as to the status of my better options, he seemed satisfied. “You deserve a boyfriend,” he said, emphatically.

I nodded, “Yeah, you know, I think I do, too.”

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