Hat

 You were wearing this hat that made you look like a kid.

Your car keys hung round your neck on a child’s lanyard.

It was dark and you stood with one black boot

pointed at the door, telling me that you were going and

don’t worry and you’d be back, later.

It’s raining I said.

No you told me.

It’s only wet.

Please I said.

What you asked.

Drive slow I answered.

Willing myself not to make a big deal

because we had been getting along so well.

You laughed and rolled your brown eyes.

The door slammed and I never got to say,

“I love you,” and the whole night,

I knew it would never be the same again.

Published by:

W. A. Schwartz

I the mother of two complex young women and a beautiful teenage boy, I'm a doctor, a wife, a writer, a good gardener, a terrible cook, a hopeless romantic, a lazy voter, an impatient driver, a conscientious objector, a good daughter, a reasonable sister, a really bad patient, the worst kind of singer, an excellent sewer and the best damn dreamer you ever met.

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