One holiday rolls out, another rolls in. The season was not meant for work and strife, but for candlelight and winding hours ignorant of clocks. I return to the bar, the bartender parked across the table telling me stories of her trip to England and rolling her eyes when other patrons come in. The two young girls next to me talk about a boy, and it's all I can do not to lean over and say he's just not that into you, but really the answer isn't that, it's that he's a child, still. He doesn't know how to step up, and she doesn't know, yet, to require it of him.
You bring out a manuscript, long abandoned, edges scuffed. The voice sounds familiar, but like a distant cousin you know you liked growing up. I had missed you. You're unsure how to approach the wildling, trying to make yourself seem less threatening, even though you know you're not threatening at all. You only want the best for these pages, only want them to come to light in a sparkle. That's not a threat, surely, only a promise. Only a hope.
She writes from the research institute to say you're next in line for the experimental treatment study. You tell her you're happy now and does that make you ineligible? She says yes. You say, I'm glad, and are a little overwhelmed to realize you mean it.
She writes from 5th street to say the room is available, and would you like to come see it. You tell her you spend your Mondays down the block, writing. The bartender brings you cheese, this is your neighborhood even though it's been years since you last lived around the corner. Maybe it's time to return.
Even strays are allowed to come home,
now and then.
