One and Two . . . . late, as usual

The field behind our house was never a field.

It was a castle with a draw bridge and a moat and dozens of armor clad soldiers coming to save me.

It was a baseball diamond where I played third, my brother played second and our cousin, Andrew, played catcher. You had to pitch the ball to yourself, but you never struck out.

It was a jungle where wild animals lurked and us hunters would hide with our bazookas and bows and arrows waiting for our dad to blow his old elk horn so our safari could begin.

It was a an old farm being overrun by indians during the American Revolution. Johnny Redcorn Laine would tie me up and rustle the cattle, but he wouldn't get away with it. My brother would tear off after him on our only horse and save the farm.

It was lots of things; mostly dreams. But it was never a parking lot . . . .until last summer.


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I’m convinced, at times, that I’ve imagined him. Content to hide inside my own mind, conjuring the things I’ve always wanted but never found. Even in his arms I feel the need to experience everything at once.

I breathe him, I draw him in closer, I open my eyes and absorb everything I’m seeing, I kiss his lips and drink him in all the while listening closely for his heartbeat. I need to know he’s not an apparition.

One second passes, then two, then twelve, I feel him pulling away - not because it’s uncomfortable, but because even the closest of couples need personal space - and I pull him closer to me for a moment more. The moment is brief, but it’s enough. I convince myself that he’s real. That he’s here. And I hope he always will be.

But time passes too quickly when we’re together and soon it’s time to leave. I drive past a small town, an empty field, a bustling metropolis, they’re all the same no matter how different. They’re not where he is and that’s where I need to be. Until then, I will spend my life in periods of disbelief and imagination broken by stolen moments with him.