The Polaroid
The photo is crisp, although somewhat
faded, its glossy surface skewed
by highlighted creases, which appear like
white lines under an incandescent ceiling
lamp.
That lamp flickers - the only light
source in the room, and the plastic
Polaroid flicks in and out, an image
of a man and his lady, arms
around one another, in winter,
in snow laden fields. He had
misplaced his ring that day.
He looks. He remembers. He looks
again.
He remembers the smell of
makeup, the touch of wool coats
and feather-soft hair felt through
the thick of winter gloves, and the
low of Appalachian winds, which
whistle their eerie howl between
dead branches. He closes his eyes
and pictures the sunset.
He had misplaced his ring that
day. It was a cold day, and
windy, with white tornadoes
and sugared pines. He
can see the naked callous
on his finger.
The sting on the lobes, the
numbness around the nose
and chapped lips - that lamp
flickers again, and in those
black moments, he feels it
over, and over --
and he misses her. Deeply, he misses her.
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