Your hand against my forehead by my temple with a cooling
towel when I have a burning fever, the soft white sheets that wrap our bodies
with the fragrance of tiny purple violets that grow on the rivers edge, when
you look at me with inquiry and tell me I am the sweetest person you have ever
known,
When you took me to the hospital to have my ankle fixed and
waited there all day to take me home in the new car; after another gym incident
a repeat of the hospital trip,
your coffee; your tea, and then -
On the misted waterfront by the bridge – across the Seine to
the Rodin museum you took off your shirt in the rain and put it over my head
like a parachute – we laughed and took partial pictures of the sculptures in
the rain, drank wine, laughed some more for good measure,
Talking on the phone for an hour and a half from downstairs
to up -
giving up days with me while I work on one art piece or
another, waiting for me for whatever I want to do, when late August comes;
taking me to a cooler place for work or relaxing, remembering what I have been
and what I can be, with a look on your face that says surprise and (weather you
believe it or not): saying my continual,
changing art and writing amaze you,
Leaving me alone and understanding
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