(Note: Jen and I celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary today. I wrote this for a previous anniversary.)
I remember the menagerie â€“
red ants, cockroaches,
a dog that stole underwear.
Horned toad burying himself â€“
at least, we assumed it was a â€œhimâ€ â€“
under the bush beside the screen door.
Lime-green geckos clinging to
sun-warmed stucco, cooling
in the desert evening.
Blue plastic bowls with the name of
our furry practice child.
I remember the meeting â€“
front-row seats at a round table
just across the dance floor from the band.
Hesitantly approaching two women
and knowing instantly.
Suddenly the sets were twice as long
and the breaks twice as short.
Iâ€™d hurry to put down my saxophone
and continue the conversation.
I remember the desert â€“
long hike with fast-beating heart.
Brilliant moonlight washing over the hills,
air warm enough for shorts
even in the middle of the night.
The swelling drone of bees as they
awoke to the Sonoran sunrise.
A horizon so distant that we could watch
the sun pour onto the land like thick honey
filling the mountainsâ€™ bowl.
I remember the restaurant â€“
heart in my throat,
ring in my hand,
one knee on the hard tile floor.
You said â€œyesâ€ and applause drifted over
to our table.
I remember the train â€“
exhausted after semi-circumnavigating the world.
Comatose kitten in a plastic box and
tired smiles as the train pulled away from Narita
and headed toward Tokyo, then north.
No jobs, no place to live.
All the world before us.
I remember the trees â€“
white cherry blossoms flowering
outside the second-floor window.
Early morning sounds of
from the sunken field below.
Waking at night as the house shook and
deciding there was trouble just as
the tremor stopped.
I remember our son â€“
watching in awe as life emerged
to the strains of Nat â€œKingâ€ Cole,
the same sounds that joined us together
in the desert now welcoming our newest bond.
Walking down the hall where the
others waited and bursting into tears.
â€œItâ€™s a boy.â€
Crying again with worry in those
first harrowing hours.
The same emotions repeated three years later.
Mostly, I remember you.