a love letter to the daffodils
At 15, my eyes were on the prize of a boy named Carl just a few months away
from college. We shared the stage briefly that early spring, a musical whose title
eludes me now because what mattered always were the rehearsals, time backstage
to flirt, however inexpertly, and feel the electric wash of yearning descend
from the faux-velvet of those burgundy curtains. Carl has long escaped my gaze,
of course, each of us tucked into separate families, though each year, as the soil
begins to loosen, and the daffodils wink their first hello, I return to a place
not yet touched by loss, not sanded by age or worry or unglued of wishful thinking.
Here, I believe everything is possible, every beautiful Carl whispering in my ear
as the house lights dim, and somewhere, in the distance, someone begins to sing.