Twenty-six miles with thirty-five pounds on his back. The inclination is as much as they call it the stairway to heaven. He missed those two top points because in the foot placement, rock facing, trees marked way, he forgot to zag on the zig and ended up in heaven just off the trail a bit.
I yell out to the office, "He's out of the woods." They are all concerned mothers, and we're just making it day to day. There's a general whoop in acknowledgment and I get on a bus with air. Twenty-six miles is nothing for me. I think I'm going to tell him that when we talk this weekend.
Today I am grateful for miles in a day and for the different ways we can spend them.
He doesn't show up and there seems to be a crisis somewhere. I don't dare ask. I just say, "Let me know if I can help." In that moment all I can do is allow him to be who he needs. I think that must mean you know it is in love in a possibly not infinite but definitely not greedy way. Though I must admit, I've begged to see him.
"Anywhere, anytime," are words that do not shame me. They reveal a vulnerability of the most horror movie anything can happen path to a sure awful place.
There was only one question I had decided to ask after I jumped from behind the restaurant's front door and yelled, "Boo," when he entered.
No, I wouldn't do that. But he would have laughed.
There was only one question, and from someone who tries to consider herself a writer, you know it had to be a good one. Much scarier than jumping from behind a door. I had already planned the sabotage. The question he had to look in my eyes to answer would have only contained the following words,
"Mickey Smith. You have to say it. You have to tell me over a small filet and a shrimp poboy why, oh why, dear sweet man, could you not love Mickey Smith?"
And he would have laughed again.
And then said it.
And that would be the best lunch ever.
But it didn't happen so I sent a letter.
Grateful that he will read it.
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