A Rose a Rose a Rose a Rose

My mom called me foggy when I was a child. For a long while I thought she was describing my strange bouts of sadness even then like the morning fog that captured the trees over the river. She was adoringly comparing me to a foghorn. The neighbors would pass our house on foot and I would be peeking through the front screen. Hi. I'd say with an obvious darling baby drawl. "Hi. Hi Kathy. Hi."

When I am gestating/on existential hold, I take fabulously long walks. My hips disappear, my shoulders rise up like sails. I venture the entire city, scale dozens of hills. This time, I am trying to make eye contact, let alone say, "Hi!," with neighbors. Of the hundreds, I have locked a rare stare. I suppose it is most important to focus ahead when traveling in the city. 

We've rationed out our souls differently this century. The light is a tunnel. I long for something like a rose, a plump ruby red rose cliche. I suppose when our eyes do meet, I'll know.