I came across our satchel back in April. I had to go to Washington to see what kinds of damage were done to my storage unit. It was impacted by smoke and soot, that much the manager of the lot let me know. That I didn't lose all my goods to an arson fire was miraculous. Only one unit separated me from total loss.
As it were, I lost quite a bit to smoke damage. Over and over again, as I rifled through boxes and such, I found that much of what I stored away years ago had been lost not only to ravages of the fire, but to mildew, time and negligence. I knew when I popped open the door, the first time in over 10 years, that I was in for less of a surprise than a reawakening, one that thrust me right back into that Kitsap house that I had to abandon so many years before.
I found many treasures, including family photos, toy soldiers, records and art. Books were on the most part unsalvageable, expect to folks I would deem to be deeply biblioholic,
And yet, there on the floor, under a table and other pieces of flotsam, I found the bag. Years ago when I switched up units, I changed the container of our words, from a solid wooden box to a canvas bag, something I picked up at a conference. It was smoky smelling, and reeked of mildew, but it was whole.
I took the bag back to my hotel room and opened it briefly. I saw one photo, one that had been torn in half that night I attacked and dismembered our words and pictures. But even in the midst of my madness I made sure that I didn't mar the image of your face. I looked hard at the photo, put it back in the folder in the bag, zipped it up and hugged it for a long while.
I mention all this because I made for you a little arts and crafts kind of memento for Valentines Day. It contained four poems and images culled from the net, all bound in a colorful package of construction paper, ribbon and love. I only had the courage to read those words once I got home. I was overwhelmed once again, but this time the tears flowed.
I shared those poems with an artist friend of mine, who is a poet in his own right and who participates in classes and public readings on a regular basis. He has been asking me to read poems and I told him back when he started to pester me about it that while I once wrote poems fairly regularly, I didn't anymore.
But when I brought the satchel by his house, to let him and his wife read my words to you, I made it clear that I thought my time of words, lovingly penned and put into poetry, were behind me because, well, I wrote love poems to you and that seemed to be the end of it.
I did write one more, sometime in the year 2013, to my new paramour on the coast. She, too, said "no one has ever written me a poem before". That was the last time. What is wrong with this world, that men, the ones that came before me, the ones thought to be serious, could not put a few words together for that woman?
So, I could rest. My friend witnessed my words, and thought so well of them that he wished for me to read them at the next poet gathering. I thought that I would but then, since he backed out of this months reading, I decided that, no, those words were ours, not made for public consumption. That I shared them with him was a sort of a breach of trust, and I felt that, afterwards, that I would just let it be. I needed yet another witness to our love, one that, even after all these years and miles apart, is still strong in my heart.
Miss you, much love,
Your WHMB
