March 2024

There was a time, years back now, when the warm weather brought lovers out from each other and they and their people all gathered by the river to do something about it. And they’d dance under big tents in the lawn. And the girl would pull my windows down. Wrapped in a blanket, sun tired, standing on her desk chair in my living room, nose to the screen, listening to their speeches. 

We’re the only lovers in the warm weather now, though. The girl and I. I’ve been still before, but never lonely. And still, busy, moving, warm weather, cold, I’d rather be with her. She could stand to wash the dishes more, and I could stop throwing down the water warped door to the secret cupboard on the stairs, but it’s good. We’re good. I can’t quite get down to the river to do something about it, but some folks who did once threw fake flowers along the bank in celebration. That’s why the girl is always coming back for me with petals in her pockets. She’s still finding them, slowly. One or two a month. Sometimes none. Then lately, these lucky few weeks of winter-eaten leaves and kicking about for early mushrooms—she’s found five. Stocked my jar in the kitchen. We are loved. We are trying. 

The days haven’t decided what they’ll be yet. They’re fighting over whether or not we should pack the sweaters away beneath the bed again. She’s been tying her string into long ugly hats for every small thing that might feel a chill. She threatens to make one for me to fit the unlit stove pipe since it can’t stay warm on its own. Still too cracked for a fire in the kitchen. She’s allowed to tease me about it, it’s okay.

She’s got her own cracks and cold spells too. I hold her curled up on the couch, I lick the coffee she spills on the carpet. I sit with her at the desk when the words cancel their plans, and it’s us. Together. Windows open, waiting for the music and the lovers and the speeches. We cast our own celebrants. The birds come back. The bees wake up. The pale green things lift up like their name’s been called. And the trees, for three slow weeks, throw up their petals to the wind while we blush. 

How lovely is that, 

The apple house