I Remembered an Entire Story

My Darling Editor,

I remembered an entire story (year)
in one fraction of a hollowed second this morning when I couldn’t
(would not for fear of…)
get any closer to closer to pushing on your temple,
Your cheek, hot, salt, condensation slipping down a windshield my
fingers were wiper blades plowing along on your forehead sometimes
I hand-pump the air around your face so it always comes
inout inout with your chest.
It was a rapid series of still frames. Black and white plus color.
Bound onto a reel and held up to a light (we buy 40 watt so we don’t burn our lampshades)

These days, when I do things with you, I do them too quickly. To fit them in. I make lists of the hours in my days; write people’s names next to numerals and clocks with capital letters, proper punctuation and blocky highlighter pens. I consider the blank spaces yours. The wedge shaped air between punctual, planned, you are
What I fit in, what I remember.

I can recall playing questions, games
“Which golden girl are you”
“What are your favorite books?”
“You DO know who ___ is, right?”
“…no, please let me buy you another beer. It’s important to me that you stay.”
We sent time and location confirmation back and forth
I scraped the bottom of change jars and overdrew bank accounts in hopes for a longer evening of lifting heavy blankets, layers of rust and thick skins over coffee. Corona. Waitresses had to spend hours. Lifting beer glasses and eyebrows.

I once thought we were pregnant.
We sat at Big Boys and I couldn’t bring myself to eat the eggs.
Cigarettes and beer made me blanche.
I heard small voices and my breasts ached.
We went home and talked about the aesthetics of a poetry book.
Yellow lined papers. Spiral-binding. Content was more but font was everything. We couldn’t think of one. We should design typeface.
Our mattress was on the floor and you leaned over the air between us. Set your heart on a radio wave and blew it down to me:
“Would it help if we talk about what we’d do?”
(yes, baby. Baby. That would help. I am scared. I want to be a parent with you but I don’t even want you to know that yet. This is not how it plays out in my head. First. First we are not both kids).
And we talked about play structures and family photos.
(public v. private. Hands are cold. Particularly the right. Is it okay to talk about this? Will it turn to stone when the sun rises tomorrow?)
Crust on bread, safe brands, taxes and footprints on white stairs.
(Catholic v. agnostic. Names v. color coding).
And we grew a little older in that room and for three nights from then when I finally discovered.
No.
I was not pregnant. There was no baby.
But you had shown me, too, that I was not empty.