Ducks in Birchfield Gardens.

Written Summer 2009.

The earth smelled rich as I ran my fingers across the pastoral carpet of the gardens, sunlight bathed our laughter. It crept around trees, filling the pathways and settling on the pond where it danced and glistened knowingly. My laces were untied. My lipstick somewhat faded. It all somehow reminded me of how just a few hours before as you placed a shiny cigarette box in your mouth how a tiny rainbow illuminated your dimples.

I think then I thought I'd stop breathing if you left.

Your hair smelled clean and your hands felt cold, the skirts of my dress lifting in the breeze. I felt like I was in a painting, and I quite hoped somebody would hang the painting in a gallery somewhere for all to see and we'd just stay there. Just stay there like golden children. Your laugh, my nailpolish, the last remaining brown and crumpled leaves drifting here and there, it's all so vivid. And then you showed me the spring-born tulips and I thought how apt.

You held me. You lifted me up. You spun me around. You stole my coat so I would chase you. You stood with me by the pond watching the ducks. You dimpled. You borrowed a cigarette and I was bliss.  

I was bliss and it was a miracle.