11:11

For the first time in a long time (too long to mention)

I read a poem about Paris and didn't picture your face

I didn't see your brown eyes or the dimple in your chin

Rather, an almost-stranger with black hair and blue eyes appeared to me;

he wore a black coat to match his hair and strolled down the streets of the Marais, hands in pockets.

It snowed in my head because it snowed in the poem;

And it was strange to see him there in your stead - you, who lived in Paris with me briefly, who walked with me down the very streets this almost-stranger swaggered through

I say "almost" because I only met him once; I cannot say I know him

And yet, he feels known, this unknown man - the night was freezing (no snow, though) when he held out his hand to me.

A long time ago (too long to mention), I started privately wishing you well when the clock read 11:11

If we were together or apart, I thought, "I wish for your happiness."

Well, habits become habitual and now I can't stop:

11:11 comes twice a day: I repeat those words.

*

Last night in the park on the first warm day of spring, I saw a little girl

Maybe six years old. Her chestnut bangs fell on the rims of her thick black glasses.

Her mouth circled by the residue of a blue popsicle.

Her left forearm in a cast-

poor thing. She chased a hen.

Maybe she was an odd child - I don't know. I'm speculating.

She might struggle in friendship, love nature, hold magnifying glasses over worms wriggling in the earth

But she seemed wild and happy and free.

And I thought about your future daughter, and could only wish upon you a child so present:

in the world

in the grass

in play

in popsicle-eating.

Now at 11:11, I include the girl in the park,

her happiness, yours and your little girl's,

the almost-stranger who appeared to me in real life and then in a poem.

My own, too, if I happen to find the time.