He came.
Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe
Temperature keeping of course.
Snacks too, always
Sweet.
Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself
Housed in plastic, the cellphane type.
Undoubtedly he had read
Somewhere that we
Love sweets, they help us
Thru the absence of what we really
Crave.
So here he came, in a
Glorious naivety, an
Ignorant hope.  He
Found me while I was distracted, busy
Inhaling summertime on a
Paper plate.
Bland burgers,  burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and
Soggy chips, these the
Staples of a barbecue.
I don't know whether it's the
Charcoal or the
Vitamin D, but somehow that
Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've
Ever had,
Delicious,  tasting of smiles and
Tan lines,
Green grass and flip-flops,
Fun and relaxation.
As I took it in, he
Approached,  sidekick in tow,
Of course, carrying a book,
That book, the one none of us
Wanted to see or touch, much less
Read.
I thought about running, knew I could.  But, my
Blissful escape on paper had been
Provided by the neighborhood
Church.  My
Mother had instilled enough
Manners in me to know that in
Exchange for this happy memory Inducing
Food, the
Least I could do was listen to his
Spiel.
I did listen, then I
Excused myself. He,
One more person
Met and forgotten in moments.
Except he came
Back
Again and again,
Praying and talking
With all of us,
Bringing with him snacks:
Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of
Hope, hot chocolate  
Accessorized with
Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal
Scars, result of
Needles and of memories.
He kept coming,
Wouldn't give up; probably he
Couldn't.
Kept trying ,
Trying to penetrate the
Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of
Protection,
Fabulous fog keeping everything at a
Distance, slightly
Blurry, too
Distorted to
Hurt.
To get thru that fog, to make it
Dissapate, would be nothing short of a
Miracle. One that he
Wouldn't be able to
Produce.
We'd all sit
Politely, listen to him,
Wishing we could
Hear him,
Knowing we
Couldn't.  Because he
Wasn't human to us.
Too perfect,  too saintly,  too
Godly.
Unreal.
The equivalent of the
Mall Santa:
Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more
Real.
Until that day,
That day we talked
Hair.  
1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he
Wanted better hair,  the
Patrick Dempsey kind,
Thick, flowing. His
Desire for that meant he was
Vain,
Insecure,
Human.
Human meant I
Heard, meant the
Fog was still there, but he was
In it,
With me,
Willing to wait for it lift.
He willing to wait, I willing to
Hear.
He came,
Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate,  
Honeybuns. And
Glorious naivety with a side of
Ignorant hope, the
Best kind of hope, really the
Only kind.
Naivety and hope. That
I inhaled, like
Summertime on a
Paper plate.