TheBanyanTree: Yet . . .

[NancyIee at aol.com]

I still love you, after all, though we haven't been together for months. We 
talk, on the phone, cells breaking off, our minds going numb, finding silence 
in place of embarrassment.  We talk for an hour, but say little.  How are you? 
I am fine? I had to call the plumber, Oh? I finally got the lawn mowed. 
Skirting, dancing, checking up on each other in the shade of trite phrases. I hear 
more in your voice, in your silences, than in the words.

I love you still, though it's awkward when we chance to meet. Years of 
history suddenly cause tears. Blinking away the past in a smile.  You're looking 
good. I lost a few pounds. I like your new car. We don't speak at all of the 
things that caused the rift. We don't talk of the distance now between us, except 
to learn that my garden is dying of heat just as you are planting your new 
crop. You should come and visit. I'll try, though it's hard to get away right 
now. An invitation just a hint, and scuffed over.

I love you still, though I don't know if we can bridge the gap. Harsh words, 
anger and resentment left us with nothing but cold silence. We fought 
unfairly, one loud, the other going away, taking turns to keep the uneasy peace.  
Now,at least, we don't argue. We don't even talk.  How's your  brother? I ran into 
your old school friend the other day.  I finally got to go fishing.

I love you still, though it's hard on my heart to talk to you. I miss your 
voice, its depth and softness. Now, it speaks  only of news. The weather. The 
project you work on. You say, at long last, I wish things were different and I 
reply that I have to go. I can't go to that place. Not yet. There is so much 
history, a lifetime. We know each other so well, we learned to fight so 
brutally. The sheer memory of it makes my soul cry. The phone is silent, the call 
broken. I have my own life, and you have yours. We spoke of no common ground. I 
have things to do, and so do you.  I can imagine you walking away to resume your 
project, as I walk to mine.  Yet . . . . . 

I love you still.




NancyLee