My shoes are in the garden. Facing the white hyacinths. But I am not there.
I might be under the tousled covers in the bedroom at the end of the hall on the left. Waking to see the girl I was at seventeen. Sitting at the end of the bed.
Or I might be in the portico having my morning coffee with my dog. Who will eventually turn, look at me and say, “I have loved you. You have been a good friend.”
My shoes are in the garden but I am not there.
I might be at my desk in the studio writing to you. Telling you that I am uncertain. I have never known.
I could be walking down the driveway. Because it is shady. Avoiding the splotches of sunlight. It is very hot.
If I am in my car I am driving on a road I do not know. I choose that.
If I am meeting you I will not be late. I have done that and I feel the weight of making you sit alone in a place not of your choosing.
If I am speaking to my daughter I will tell her the things that she does not know. Does not know about me. Things I want her to know in that vast scape of time when I will not be.
My shoes are in the garden facing the white hyacinths. But I am not there.