Tuesday 200 - #20
You’ve left it hidden.
25 years ago you buried a box, promising you’d return and dig it up, no matter what. Neither of you believed it would happen.
Surprise.
She’d emailed … “I’ll see next Thursday. Under the oak tree on the southwest side of the Quad.”
You tell your wife a business trip came up and book the flight.
“Seems like a million years ago,” she says. Should you agree or tell the truth? It seems like yesterday.
You dig, pretending not to compete to find it first. You can’t remember what’s inside.
A Polaroid. You two in the rain. Her boyfriend shot it.
The red Devo hat you’d found her singing in, soaking wet, tripping her brains out.
A blue disk from Tip-It. You’d taped it to a curtain rod named Henry. It was his hat. He told hysterical stories. You’d been tripping harder.
A dried oak leaf. A guitar pick. The screen from a ceramic bong named Gandalf.
She slips the blue disk into her purse. You don the Devo hat. You hold the leaf just a little too tightly. It crumbles through your fingers.
You both swear you’re truly happy.
And slowly it begins to rain.
:: :: ::