communion
Tell me a story, I say when the storm subsides and quiet waves lap the shore.
(Did you ever catch fireflies?)
Tell me a story, I say with my head on his chest.
(Do you like the smell of vanilla and the taste of chocolate?)
Tell me a story, I say in the dark.
(When did you last sip honeysuckle?)
I ask on the exhale and hear his stillness.
(Can you do a flip turn in the pool?)
Heartbeat.
(Are you scared of sharks?)
Heartbeat.
(Do you believe in coincidences?)
Deep inhale.
(Do you like burnt marshmallows?)
Full exhale.
(Have you ever eaten a BLT with fresh tomatoes and so much mayo
that you leaned over the sink to eat it?)
A story, he says. What kind of story?
(Who taught you to ride a bike?)
I don’t know any stories.
(Did you cry when you read Where the Red Fern Grows?)
Inhale. Exhale.
(Can you find Moldova on a map?)
I watch my hand resting on his chest.
(Can you drive a stick shift?)
I stretch my fingers.
(Can you curl your tongue?)
I make a fist.
(Do you like butter pecan ice cream?)
I stretch my fingers.
(Did you ever find a four-leaf clover?)
Heartbeat.
(Did you ever fail a math test?)
Inhale. Exhale.
(Do you think Wed-nes-day when you write Wednesday?)
I sit up, lean down, and kiss him for an inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale.
I lie next to him again.
His breathing slows. I turn over in our silence.