The Instigator And The Agitator

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.