7 mins & a caffiene buzz'd notebook belch...

i keep thinking i should know what all the things that have led up until now should mean.

the chilled night i answered the phone, but perhaps more so the time i took to relish the
message left before hello. talk of an old painted man and a quietly graceful woman rocking on a breezy twilight porch with silver hair to rival the moon. chimes pinging the tale of a his and herstory.
the beginning, the stutter, the steps needed to make international miles melt, the pennies thrown at corporation to make it possible. the audience of real kin murmuring and cheering on an impossible but
necessary union in the background, knit to a family tree where the colors breathe like
dragons giggling smoke and ash, where no DNA made it so, and so made it strongest.
the very year that bore me, the few following that spit him, hundreds of miles or kilometers or whatever apart, depending on your perch on the compass.
had we roamed in petticoats and spurs, there never would have been a door...maybe.
maybe smoke signals would have lent scent to a passing hawk to deliver the ghost of charred maple
and birch, to circle his head and flood his eyes. the acrid sting climbing his nostrils and settling down for a nap in his senses.
in a simpler time we may have brushed that wisp aside like a persistent gnat. called it voodoo, witchcraft, and i and my auburn waves would have gladly laughed terribly in the mouth of sanitizing flame, tethered my wrists willingly because i know now, and knew than, the very best part of me transcends flesh and hue.
yes, i would have opened my jaws to the devils kiss and claimed his forked tongue between my teeth and oh, the merriment in my eyes would have branded into the souls of every god fearing spectator at this heretics glee....yes.
just to sleep in the knowledge that it is only ever time.
to burn for the boy whose ocean eyes could temper my ever angry flame.
perhaps he carved the window in the ether with the sharp wit pulled from the satchel of hope at his side,
perhaps i crafted the sill from dust of memory and hurts and the love of maybe tomorrow.
would it be that we both wove cosmos for a crystal net hung just so, to soften the inevitable fall. whether the intricate twinkle lit by gaslight flicker, or an amber electric hum, the story plays out the same;
not for this lifetime, but perhaps the next one...until then the devil takes his bow.