Be Slow Like Us
The last time I heard church bells,
they sang while a girl read her poem to strangers.
She cried because she thought
she lost somebody important,
but her friend was found alive.
I told her the church bells always meant something.
One month later:
I walk downtown to meet him.
At the beginning of my walk,
a man walks out of the taxi headquarters
and yells at a car in passing traffic,
“Slow down, asshole!”
I take this as a sign from the universe.
I slow down, literally, physically.
I slow down because I’m the asshole
the messages are for today.
The church bells resonate.
Slow. Deliberate. Slow.
If they were an asshole,
nobody would tell them to slow down.
Two turtles banging shells together kind of slow.
Those bells always mean something.
I thought I lost somebody important, too.
The church bells are telling me I haven’t.
He hugs me and it feels like
the warm oatmeal he doesn’t get to eat
because they don’t serve it after five.
It takes us forever to order
because we can’t stop talking.
Two people have to ask if we’re in line.
He gets toast instead of oatmeal.
I like him.
We drink tea.
We talk.
I think our knees are touching,
but it could also be the table’s pole.
Sometimes his eyes can’t meet mine.
There’s this quote that says,
“There are two types of people
who can’t look you in the eyes.
Someone trying to hide a lie,
and somebody trying to hide a love.”
I opt for “hiding a love”.
I have one reason.
The church bells.
We walk together downtown
until we arrive at the Mobil station.
We hug once more.
I sprout temporary invisible wings
like the Pegasus that burns red
and watches over us.
We go in different directions.
I slow down, literally, physically.
A turtle with her home on her back.
I take my time.
I am home.
I am crying.
I know how amazing it is
to find somebody
you thought you lost forever
alive.
However, they don’t tell you they might not
be able to look you in the eye.
When did I notice he disappeared again?
I don’t know.
Probably now.
And it’s painful.
I remember being in a field once
while it was burning.
Somebody saw a turtle and yelled,
“Save it!”
We were told it had a shell to crawl into,
and that made it safer than anybody.
Eight months later:
The bells weren’t saying I hadn’t lost somebody.
The bells were mimicking the taxi driver.
The bells were saying, “Slow down, asshole.
Be slow like us.”
He wasn’t hiding a love.
It’s been eight months.
I’m in my shell.
I’ll survive.