Poetry / Over Tea
Someone knocked on my door this afternoon and I didn’t recognize her face,had no idea where we met, at what time and in what place. But she knew me, so well enough to call me by nickname and though I knew her just the same, I stared at her with almost the blankness you stare at a stranger with, because that’s what she had become, regardless of the cheeked kiss and invitation in. Maybe we had just lost touch, or maybe she changed a lot over the years, but my eyes did not deceive her ears when I said, “I don’t know you—anymore.”
But she laughed, which made mine follow, and in our diverged oration of humor she took a seat at my kitchen table and asked for a cup of tea, which we eventually drank together, as we tried to get to know one other—again.
You see, calendar pages flip along the same lines that trace the eyes after time takes no consideration for its passing. Voices fade in and out, and with their sound they hold profound images, but being that we had not seen each other since the clock struck 15, it was hard to imagine the colors she had used to paint her pictures.
But, her smile was the same. And in an instant, I remembered her nickname and we, without flaw, had made it back to the many years before when we were almost the same person. Forgot about the birthdays we missed and the letters we skipped when we promised we would write, and we both have, creating one another as subliminal characters in each others late night letters to ourselves.
We’d never forgotten completely, just forgotten to completely remember.
And here we sat, women with real lives in our laps, giggling over our first cigarettes and sips of Johnny Walker. And while she only lived across the town a few years back, we had parted ways when her days got high and black and her pupils lost their shine. I knew her story, but I was writing mine, and even then, as immature, my book was all I got high for,so we split, and now here we sit, talking about real shit and bouncing back. Getting to see, hear the mental photos taken over the years, the pictures painted over the years, the letters written over the years—over tea.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
I like the alliteration and repetition of words. I would change where the page demarcations are, I didn’t ‘get it’ and feel confused about why it splits where it does. And the last paragraph seems a little clunky compared to the flow in the rest of the piece… but that might just be me; Try reading it aloud several times to see if you get tripped up.
- add/view comments (1)
November 25, 2005
Deleted User
I can really imagine the scene you set up in this piece. I’m not sure about the part of the last line, “getting to see, hear the mental pictures taken over the years…” Maybe review that last paragraph. Really nice ideas though; it’s touching.
You’re stanza breaks are a bit awkward and a few of the sentences in you’re first stanza sound jumbled up. But all in all, it’s a really good write. Vivid imagery; a sad yet warm poem, one that many readers can relate to.
I liked the piece, but I would like to now who the woman was. To me, it sounds as if the woman’s friend was actually the woman herself recollecting past actions and memories.
This 35 word review has not been unlocked.
Showing 1 - 5 of 5
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
