Love
by Julianne Billings
knows me as pools of liquid chocolate reflected in my own gaze and
unruly dark tresses that roam free during the day, but proudly cover-up at night.
A black, jersey, scarf covered them the night we clutched hands,
painful love – like the time I made her cry so hard, I heard her sobs outside the bathroom door (little did she know, I cried too) – streaming from my eyes and scraping against my throat as I ran headlong
into the night, screeching sounding behind us;
who were so young, and living in a breathless moment
of adventure and headstrong, unabashed life, but
that jersey scarf like a sparkling flare – she has this way of energizing every room she enters – held my eyes transfixed as I chased my own desperate puffs of air behind that tree and
that scrap of black fabric – maroon's her favorite color, but it clashes with most of her clothes –paralyzed my mind as each shot rang out
because that jersey –
also in magenta, grey, and my personal favorite, the deep red that brings out her audacity –
is a terrifying reminder of sixteen years of
stealing my American girl dolls and hiding them in plain sight and
long, barely held, competitions of sullen silence in a red car at too-early-in-the-morning-o'clock and
“do you want Qdoba?” and
which Barbie Movie haven’t we watched recently? Because we have so much time and
we thought that time was dragging during those months but
it sped up that night as I watched her black scarf blend in with the night sky and
I realized what I might lose – laughter, hate, tears, late nights, anger, and chocolate donuts –
but her shaking hand and murmured prayers reminded me she was still there and
I finally understood love.