The conversation was a residue
of breakfast born out of a homily
taken personally as talk excuse.
There wasn’t space or time enough if some
of them were quite surprised and could not go
if half of a couple were left and so
the compromise did not exist. They went
and were regaled with thanks for God and His
continued grace she didn’t have to tell
our face. It was as evident as her
uninterrupted gab of counsel or,
less strung, yet still high on adrenaline,
a WYSWYG telling like it is. She is
unlike a Kris, she doesn’t keep nor crave
a life of ease if what you make of hers
is contrary to bliss; she is content
she found a long-lost sis and even if
their meeting has to take place yet. Her tears
were genuine joy because of what she did
did not expect except what likeliness
of fond reunions bring, the missing being
that; it makes the abscence present and
the heart can only take only enough. So shed
she did, and oh! the others, too, let it
be said for story-telling’s sake. The haunt,
an orange clue of next week’s uniform,
will mark the mind too early to forget
a previous sharing, precious, giving, felt.
Abraham de la Torre
