Ode to a Gluten-Free Romance

To Stephen, who couldn’t eat bread:

You were my first idea of love. A five year old little man of mystery. Freckles, a gap toothed grin: your cologne was the syrup from your breakfast that morning or the summer dirt from the t-ball field. You were Superman, GI Joe, maybe even Ken. We catapulted off couch cushions, climbed the rocky steep of the jungle gym, and skied down its slopes.
We rode a bright, ornate merry-go-round during those years. Orange and metallic-- it became a living kaleidoscope when our fathers would push us. We saw the world spinning around us, a collage of purple, green, blue and sunlight. We held on tight and laughed.
Your family moved away. And you went too. I remember thinking you would kiss me good-bye. In my mind, I would run out the front door of my house in my yellow sundress and watch your car ride away to your new far-away home. But Stephen, you never came back, and I forgot about you. And that’s ok, because in my mind, when we were spinning on the merry-go-round I knew what I wanted.
But for me, that merry-go-round stopped for a long time. It rusted from its idleness— the orange paint peeling and flaking off unto the dry ground. I stood at my front door many times though, in my yellow sundress, and said goodbye to a few others who took me further and further away from that fast-paced ride of my past.
But maybe I will one day return to that merry-go-round. And maybe someone will hop on with me and we will see the world in a collage of colors. And we will laugh and get dizzy. Maybe he won’t eat bread either.

Sticky Situations

There was always hope on Saturday mornings and it came in the form of a fluffy pancake. Dad would wake up and grind the coffee beans--each pulse releasing a delicate yet bold aroma in the still air. Mom would soon follow in her soft, oversized pink robe. Her wet hair freshly combed out of her face and her skin dewy and slick from her Oil of Olay.
There was no tension on Saturday mornings. The TV boasted Bugs Bunny and company and the dog was subdued by the couch. You were on the floor, prone, in your footed pajamas playing with an imagination that can only exist in a child's mind. You were an Indian princess, a silver wolf, the president. You were seven and in love. In love in the way that there were no schedules, no possibility for hurt. This was how it always was.
The call to breakfast awakens you into another fantasy. Warm, Bisquick pancakes fresh off the griddle. The butter sizzles and melts, the syrup coats the delicate dough with a sugary perfection. Your little sister uses her fork. The family is proud. Orange juice--sweet, sour and then the pulp: your biggest concern. Bacon, fried and crisp--crunches and breaks apart. Forks scraping, feet kicking, cups clanging. This is life on Saturday mornings.
What you don't see isn't important then. The mail from Friday in a pile by the microwave. The bills, the coupons to save ten cents off of a pound of ground beef. A blinking red on the message machine. Call the doctor's office. It's important. But it's not. Not on Saturday mornings. When the world is still for a little while. You are in your pajamas and your fingers are sticky.

The Meeting: An Introduction

I went to see you today. It's been a long time, hasn't it? It was just like how it used to be--it was easy. It was sort of like the time that Grandma bought you that little battery-operated dog for your fifth birthday. You know, the one that would shake, then flip backwards three times, and bark? Remember how you laughed? It was a child's laugh--pure, deep, spiritual. I haven't heard that in awhile.
I went to see you today--and you were there. Waiting. It's like you were expecting me. Can I tell you something? Can I tell you that I almost cried when I saw you? I felt whole again. Like the time when Mom and Dad sat between us at church. You took each of their hands and studied them. You loved dad's rough, dark hands--how large his knuckles were compared to mom's. Her hands were flawless--smooth, soft, petite. Her nails a brilliant pink. Together, they felt like a warm blanket. That was your religion. Wasn't it?
Now that I met with you today, I feel like I need to apologize. But, first can I say that it wasn't until our meeting that I realized I lost you? I mean, I really had no idea how far away I had gone, and how long I had stayed, and that I missed you and all that you are. I was wrong. But I just didn't know at the time that I didn't know what I thought I did.
I left you because I thought I knew what it meant to grow up. I'm sorry for the quick decisions, the betrayals, the neglect. I'm sorry for wanting things to be different and for putting Him and Her and It before you.
Let's go back to the places I remember but at one time forgot. Maybe if we visit these places together, I won't ever lose you again.