It didn't come with Hello Kitty stickers, that's for sure. I know that it came with a wooden puzzle that had been stamped into a piece of balsa that we had to gingerly break out and assemble. Puzzles were the theme that day, if I remember correctly. It almost puzzling as to why I went, considering my librarian status. But who was I to worry? It was part of the great cosmic chuckle that once again pushed us together to celebrate something at work, in this case a conference that turned into a personal victory for you and a wonderful roadtrip for us.
What a time, that trip. The road leading to Chelan was filled with stops. The Bellevue Regional Library to evaluate their automated coffee bar. Everett and Pave and Catherine and Lil and boxed sandwiches, oh my! Park lunches, coffee and photos by the roadside, Hastings and pub food in Wenatchee. That hand written poem by lamp light. Rumpled arrivals. A good jazz boat trip on the night of the conference. Beers with your "roomie". That beautiful ride home through Twisp, Winslow and Washington Pass. Mexican food in Sedro Wooley. Ice cream treats in Everett, and a long, slow and bittersweet ferry ride home. What a time, M. If only that binder could talk. But then again, would it matter? I have the narrative down. That binder is the only witness.
I am the owner of that binder now, one that was once hidden away deep in your closet. Strictly my fault, I am sure, that it is in my possession now, not yours. I could not honor that truce, that coda, that ending, you so delicately thrust upon me. I kept pushing the limits of the peace and kept you in the spotlight. It was that Golden Bird Book I found and sent you from Hemet that did it. Mea Culpa, baby. But I figured... well, I figured wrong.
"Boo". I knew it was you on the phone and I knew that there was no way I could see you. Not on Halloween, not with that binder. So you came by two days later. A wet Saturday. Banged on my window. It was truly a Mexican Standoff. To place it in the dumpster, to put it in the bookdrop. what to do. In the end it went home with me, to be tucked away in that satchel that I had by the side of my bed. It filled it up, that purple binder of yours. Filled with my notes, some photos, poetry, stuff like wrapping paper and bits of nostalgic crap. All lovely to see, all important to save.
Lucky for us that it came after the fact, after that big blowout in September, that it didn't get torched. The note that you sent along with that binder I ground down and stuffed back into an envelope for you. The padding was necessary to protect that United Way pin you gained from your generous donation that year. Sigh.
So, the binder, and all it's ilk, sits. Waiting for what, I don't know. But it will be put away properly, like all those memories from that conference. From that drive. From our days. It's about time.
Like the snow that fell on us up in Washington pass, those times are gone. But the memories of that drive, that conference, those sweet, sweet days remain, all tucked away in that Hello Kitty stickered purple binder, to be witnessed and shared on some other day, when the time, and our hearts, are right once again.
Your WHMB
What a time, that trip. The road leading to Chelan was filled with stops. The Bellevue Regional Library to evaluate their automated coffee bar. Everett and Pave and Catherine and Lil and boxed sandwiches, oh my! Park lunches, coffee and photos by the roadside, Hastings and pub food in Wenatchee. That hand written poem by lamp light. Rumpled arrivals. A good jazz boat trip on the night of the conference. Beers with your "roomie". That beautiful ride home through Twisp, Winslow and Washington Pass. Mexican food in Sedro Wooley. Ice cream treats in Everett, and a long, slow and bittersweet ferry ride home. What a time, M. If only that binder could talk. But then again, would it matter? I have the narrative down. That binder is the only witness.
I am the owner of that binder now, one that was once hidden away deep in your closet. Strictly my fault, I am sure, that it is in my possession now, not yours. I could not honor that truce, that coda, that ending, you so delicately thrust upon me. I kept pushing the limits of the peace and kept you in the spotlight. It was that Golden Bird Book I found and sent you from Hemet that did it. Mea Culpa, baby. But I figured... well, I figured wrong.
"Boo". I knew it was you on the phone and I knew that there was no way I could see you. Not on Halloween, not with that binder. So you came by two days later. A wet Saturday. Banged on my window. It was truly a Mexican Standoff. To place it in the dumpster, to put it in the bookdrop. what to do. In the end it went home with me, to be tucked away in that satchel that I had by the side of my bed. It filled it up, that purple binder of yours. Filled with my notes, some photos, poetry, stuff like wrapping paper and bits of nostalgic crap. All lovely to see, all important to save.
Lucky for us that it came after the fact, after that big blowout in September, that it didn't get torched. The note that you sent along with that binder I ground down and stuffed back into an envelope for you. The padding was necessary to protect that United Way pin you gained from your generous donation that year. Sigh.
So, the binder, and all it's ilk, sits. Waiting for what, I don't know. But it will be put away properly, like all those memories from that conference. From that drive. From our days. It's about time.
Like the snow that fell on us up in Washington pass, those times are gone. But the memories of that drive, that conference, those sweet, sweet days remain, all tucked away in that Hello Kitty stickered purple binder, to be witnessed and shared on some other day, when the time, and our hearts, are right once again.
Your WHMB
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