I remember the back yard. More precisely I remember the way she smelled layered with the smell of the fire. Her sweet aroma came in thick with the smell of smoke, it danced with me while my mind played out scenes of our entire lives together in one quick burst.
The way she moved in the flickering of the flames is how I imagine the sirens of The Odyssey moved as they approached the valiant men of ulysses. She bobs and she weaves, she shows off every last one of her features and she does not speak. I imagine she can feel my eyes fixated on her and momentarily I am embarrassed. The she moves past me, as they always do. I am but a parenthetical mention in her evening, one of many sets of eyes
that must have taken her in. The most fleeting of afterthoughts.
If she only knew, if she only paused for a few seconds so that I might let loose the words on my tongue that I had prepared for her. Words it feels I have spent my whole life preparing to speak She may have melted right here and at my feet. Instead she moves past me, and I understand. Goddesses do not grant an audience with the likes of me.
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