That Fall and That Rise
I don’t remember what we talked about during the drive through the mountains.
I don’t remember if I turned on the radio, if we stopped for coffee, if I made you cry.
But I remember the turbines, the hundreds, thousands of them, rotating in the valley below.
I locked my eyes to their blades, to their falling and rising and falling and rising,
as they pirouetted from earth to sky and back again. I focused so hard on their rotations
that all these years later when I remember that day, they’re all I see.
Even now it’s easier to remember the turbines then to hate myself for not telling you
that it would be okay, that I would be, and so would we.
So I remember that fall and that rise instead of thinking of you, of how I made you feel alone
when I was sitting right there, close enough to hold your hand.