1984

October 20th 2022

One early afternoon in late April when the rains came and went, we snuck behind The Old Barn which sat broken-hearted in the far field on Grandad's farm in Dowagiac. Our pale bare feet, hungry for summer's sun, squished in the green grass, soaked with spring rain. I had cuffed my pant legs three times on the left side, four on the right and small stubble poked outward from my unshaven ankles. Muddied water splashed as we wove between rose bushes and dodged broken fence posts and soon a dark brown ring formed along the layers of my blue jeans, tight against my shins and calves. 

A light raindrop descended from the leaves of an old oak and smacked against my forehead, traced the edge of my brow, and slid across my temple onto my cheek. Suddenly your footsteps slowed and your presence became silent. I, too, stopped and I dug my toes into the earth as l stood in front of you. You reached toward me, your hand strong against my skin as you brushed the water away with your calloused thumb. You stepped closer to me and I felt your warm breath seeping slowly from your nostrils onto my cheeks. Your lips touched mine and you held them there, long enough for the trees to notice. 

The sky cried and the oaks rang out in soft applause.

*1984 was written in the spring of 2017 and published in a small poetry publication, Poems That Ate Our Ears, later that year.