He spoke the language of birds
of pickle ****
and lichen
and ailerons
and shutter speeds

Where I saw a blackbird with a spot of red on a wing

He saw Agelaius Phoeniceus a  passerine bird of the family  Icteridae found in most of  North America and much of  Central America

His mind and mouth were full of facts and figures
about wind
and lift
and tides
and the right time to plant and to harvest tomatoes

Music and science were things to be dissected
and perfected
and each thing was measured
and calculated
and intentional
like the metronome I played with on the piano in the spare room

I did not always understand him
I did not always try to learn

a kid dabbling in punk rock and drawn to graffiti will
I found it hard to relate to someone so exacting

But while I do not remember his laugh
I do remember his joy
at explaining the circuitry in a handmade airplane
or the minutiae of the wondrous geometric cellular structure of a pine cone

A hike in the sloughs and I ran ahead
while he kneeled and saw a tiny marvel, a flower or a lizard hidden by my hurry, tucked behind a leaf and revealed by his slow and patient attention

He taught us to see
To look close
To take the time to do it well

And while we bristled at the pocket knife,
cutting candy into enragingly tiny mouthfuls

he taught us to savor
and make the moments last

He never rushed a photograph
He never hurried though a museum
He never pushed you out after dinner
He sat
and listened
and truly saw you
in focus.

While his eyes blurred with age
And his ears failed him
He never stopped taking in the moment and he never stopped his ever and perfect focusing
On the thing in front of him, perhaps small but made large by his attention

The last time I saw him
he clearly
and directly looked me in the eye
and in his way
gave a blessing
passing on his focus

“Send those kids my love. Take care of them.”

And in those words
I understood him.

I am exhausted of merely being put up with.
Of men saying that I am “worth the wait” and leaving when they have to wait for me.
It will always come to a point where suddenly my company does not outweigh the desire for more of what other girls can offer. Always.
I have vowed to myself that I will wait for one with which I will wait.
Who doesn’t look at me and imagine what he’d do if I weren’t so complicated and adamant about depriving him of something that “everyone’s doing”.
I am enough when I laugh at their jokes and sing them songs and hold their hand and take off the mask I hide behind.
But I only have to wait
And eventually they will want more from my mouth than laughter and song.
They want to hold more. They want me to take off more.
They usually mean no harm, they’re human after all. The desires of the mind are dangerously powerful.
I don’t blame them for not understanding, it isn’t something they’re accustomed to. The good ones tell me no means no and I know they would never push.
But I see it in their eyes when their pupils dilate and it is not because I am beautiful.
I hear it in their breath when they kiss me once and then kiss me twice and kiss me again and again and again and press further and deeper and I yearn to give them what I know they wish they were building towards.
I cherish my innocence but I fear what happens when they are told to stop.
The exasperated sigh of frustration, the collapse beside me in disappointment.
After all these years I still don’t know how to say it.
I’ve mastered the art of holding my breath while their hands wander and telling myself as long as I take nothing off it never happened.
I got a good one once.
He made me laugh and sang me songs and held me close.
But even still I know I let him down.
His racing heart and curious lips never asked for more, but I knew they would take it if only I allowed.
They all would take it.
If only I were fun.
If only I were easy.
If only they didn’t have to take matters into their own hands when I went home.

I hate having to find out how long they can last before I am no longer endearingly but enragingly pure.
It is always shorter than I wish.

I know there are many who want my heart.
But there are so few that want nothing more.
Nothing more than what I have to offer.
Nothing more than to wait.

- p. winter