February 13, 2005
As Solange soars home about five miles up between Atlanta and Baltimore, snow, thick and weighty, like an orchestra conductor's wrists, forms a constant sinking stream past the amber lamp across the street from my darkened, second-story window, having waited (fermata-like, those moments in passionate love where you pause, mid-breath, and wait for a small gasp and smile) for her flight to depart the precipitation's purview safely. She may be writing in her journal, reading, or planning her day ahead; my alarm is set for mathematics, quiet supervision, tutelage-sharing, and the other happy vagaries of my day. Having her here was perfect bliss. Music reverberated among us, acquaintances were made, and we reconnected. I'll miss her again soon, I know, but in the present, I can only smile. And sigh.
Posted by crock038 at February 13, 2005 11:10 PM | Rambling