<\/p>\n
With soft brown eyes, auburn hair
\nbraided to his waist,
\nthe classical guitarist smiles from the stage,
\nhis nimble fingers plucking taut strings.
\nI imagine he is beaming at me,
\nsending that I-see-you\u2013invitation my way,
\nthe one that says, Meet me after the performance,
\nlet me play a special song for you.<\/p>\n
Without warning, I am fourteen again
\non the deck of a fishing boat with my parents.
\nSquared sailor hat on my head, braces on my teeth,
\nI grin at the handsome first mate,
\ncurly blond-haired siren with clear blue eyes.
\nOne kind comment from him and the fantasy begins\u2014
\nmaybe he will ask me out, maybe a dance
\nor a kiss out on the bow of the boat.<\/p>\n
Fourteen or sixty-four, it takes one smile
\nfor pimples or braces, wrinkles or bifocals
\nto disappear and fancy to come alive.
\nIn an instant, I am Rapunzel
\nwaiting to let down my hair.
\nI am Cinderella sliding my slender foot
\ninto the crystal slipper.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She knew the moment she met him
\nthat she would want to show him off,
\ncarry his picture in her wallet
\nlike a young bride, sticking it
\nunder every strangers\u2019 nose.
\nLook, she\u2019d be saying
\nwith her eyes, see who loves me?<\/p>\n
A real man\u2019s man, old George would add,
\nAbout time!
\nStrong, broad shoulders, muscles that bulged
\nwhen he stacked wood,
\ngristled carpenter hands that veined
\nwhen he swung a hammer,
\nwide arms that offered protection in every hug
\nand wry, dry humor that promised tomorrows.<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t know then about his other love,
\nthe one who secretly demanded all his time,
\noccupied every waking moment,
\noften rendered him unconscious.<\/p>\n
She tried sharing him with her,
\ntried forgiving human frailty
\nand her own fears of letting go,
\ntried ignoring garbled words and strong hands
\nlying listless on the couch.<\/p>\n
She lived with bottles hidden in drawers,
\nhis head occasionally bobbing over his dish,
\ncigarette burns in the kitchen linoleum.<\/p>\n
Watching his strength dwindle,
\nlabored breathing taking its toll,
\nshe sobbed when she found him lying near the bed,
\nglass mistress by his side.<\/p>\n
The wallet-sized photo, yellowed with the years,
\nrarely leaves her purse now,
\nbut daily she whispers his name.
\nLook, she is quietly saying with her eyes,
\nsee who once loved me?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Brittany does not remember she is old,
\nforgets that stiff bones catch on each other
\nwhen she tries to rise, does not recall
\nhow soft memory foam feels
\nunder her form and how, for hours, deaf ears
\nenfold her in deep sleep, undisturbed by sound.<\/p>\n
When the back door stands ajar,
\nscents beckoning, she knows only
\nthe lure of the woods. Anticipating adventure,
\nshe bolts like a pup to the open gate.<\/p>\n
Red coat flashing, collar-bell clanging,
\nshe runs down leaf-lined paths,
\nleaps over downed logs and fallen branches.<\/p>\n
She does not remember how
\nshe sometimes belly-flops down porch stairs
\nor how her tail sheepishly sneaks between her legs
\nwhen bigger dogs challenge;<\/p>\n
forgets that eating sharp grasses now gag
\nher half-paralyzed throat and that racing
\nleaves her wheezing.<\/p>\n
She does not worry about aches she\u2019ll feel tomorrow.
\nLike a curious child, she does not question
\nthe limits of her body, does not fathom
\nthat fine line between holding back and letting go.<\/p>\n
Despite milky lenses, fatty bulges and bony legs,
\nshe opens to the mystery of the forest
\nlike a toddler tasting freedom
\nfor the first time.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Cinderella With soft brown eyes, auburn hair braided to his waist, the classical guitarist smiles from the stage, his nimble fingers plucking taut strings. I imagine he is beaming at me, sending that I-see-you\u2013invitation my way, the one that says, Meet me after the performance, let me play a special song for you. Without … <\/p>\n