The trouble is
I miss those days.
Driving through the canyon
with the smog in my hair.
Having lunch with a friend
on the beach and wearing short cotton dresses
all year long.
It was easier then,
when all I had to worry about was the page.
I spent hours walking along the sand
trying to come up with the perfect line.
Lost in dialogue and banter.
A mirrored goose.
Arms freckling in the sun.
The never-ending sun.
Laughing.
His father holding court
while we egged each other on
just outside of Beverly Hills.
The instigator and the agitator.
I never could remember
who was who.
We were both some of each,
I guess.
His buttery hands
always warm to greet me.
The smell of brisket and Kugel,
in the oven,
while he sat at the kitchen table,
ready with a quick one-liner.
It is all too quiet
now.
