to be still

To be still, answer the invitation to try Uncle’s ginger bread. Don’t let it go to voicemail— swiftly turn back the years by pulling the phone off the hook while it rings. Take your scrolling, your to do, your nagging inboxed brain and place them in the drawer with the gum and the old takeout menus. Let them sit in the dark with the spare cough drop as you walk through glass cold, through the bristling light between your house and his. Observe the way the needle drops on your speedometer as snow shards shatter under your feet. White water river of thoughts released through your mouth— they’ll crystalize into clouds. Let them drift through the air, away, as you open his old Bilbo door. To be still, pause by the fire as the wooden beams overhead creak with his weight. Crackling heat leeching out cold and obligations alike. Watch as he readies the tea. Wait as it steeps, while his familiar voice circles stories you’ve heard before, mixing with honey in the bone china. From his historied hands, take the typewritten recipe and hold the hours of a women you never knew. Taste the bread that looks like cake, drizzled with lemon memories he shares of being called in from the yard to indulge in the poor boy’s treat. To be still, store the image of blue eyes glistening as he recalls the sound of his name, her voice. Return home with your mind, old friend, at rest. 

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