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I appreciate whatever it was you sent me.
You always had a good heart.
I'm seeing someone else, of course.
She's not your type at all.
Actually, we have moved in together, the most
charming of apartments on the west side,
isolated enough, with the woods nearby,
and the stream; wouldn't even know you're
in the city but just a quick drive to the
stores and restaurants. And your gift
came in useful, what with a new place
looking bare until our furniture arrived
from various homes and storage facilities.
For a day or two, what you gave me
was the only thing here that wasn't Amy and I.
Now, the rooms are chockablock with two lifetimes
of accumulation. Your offering is somewhere in the
midst of all these electric can-openers, toaster
ovens, quilts, books, CDs, etc, etc.
But still appreciated. If I could only remember
what it was . . . is, I mean.
Really, your kindness never ceases to amaze me.
After all we've been through together
you still take the time to reward, in your own way,
all we'll be doing apart.
To spend good money, to mail it to my old address . . .
luckily it was forwarded . . . knowing that
either you or I probably broke one just like it
those days when smashing stuff against the wall
was our way of communicating.
Really, this new thingamabob reminds me
of the old doohickey and you can't ask
for anything more than that.
© by John Grey.
Used with the author’s permission.
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