Your conversation that spring semester
warmed me like the bright sun
on winter afternoons.
Marriage blindsided me
with its onion peels
petty arguments
and unpaid bills.
When you saw my sparkly diamond ring
your congratulations sounded hollow
as you clenched your jaw.
Yet you sat across from me
every day, sharing bits and pieces
of your life in conversation.
We illustrated autumn produce:
yours striped squash, mine pomegranate.
The first time we spoke
you approached me after our class critique
of illuminated letters.
Wowed you were by my velvety black lettering
by my gilded William Morris grapevines
by my lush Gustav Klimt flowers.
I followed God’s call to the mountain
and here I sit praising him
on a Sunday afternoon.
Adapted from my journal, written in Gulf Shores, Alabama
I’ve gone to many places where I feel hopelessly alone, a speck among the masses of life. I always feel bitterly afraid and angry, wishing there was something more, something real. And here I feel alone, but in a different way.