Sunday, December 3, 2017

the art of losing: MyPoPerDayMo 5

Dec. 3
L.A.S.  1982-1991

Before you were my bridesmaid, my housemate, my fratority sister, my best friend (was I ever yours?), we stood freshman year in line for a romantic comedy and you informed me that 
at 18 we weren't supposed to be falling in love with  our future husbands; we were 
supposed to be practicing that.  I didn’t know; despite ample evidence, I still
thought I was supposed to marry the first guy I fell in love with. I was always 
a bit unsubtle, a black-and-white kind of thinker, really enjoyed that high-
contrast Keith Haring look of the 80’s.   Later, when you fell in love
with someone I didn’t approve of, you called me judgmental and
I deserved it. I hadn’t yet been crushed into compassion by
my own wrong marriage, hadn’t yet learned that what
happened to my parents freshman year was wildly
unlikely, that love would take me to a place that I
thought was imaginary, like the New York City
of Claudia and Harriet, which was real daily     
childhood for you, my friend.  So love took
me (practice losing farther, losing faster);
I left you and now when I look back
you are still wearing that unwise
black-&-white polka-dot dress,
because I could not see what
suited anyone but me,
and really not even
myself, either.

I'd like
to tell you
I was wrong
about the dress,
and about so much else. 

draft (c) HM 12.17


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