Today, a surprise snowstorm
in April, after sunny and 70s,
just in time for our re-meeting.
The snow falls
as stinging rain, freezing
our faces as we trudge
between restaurants
and bookshops,
neighborhoods he knows.
Nothing sweet, or soft.
The wind howls.
We don’t talk
as we walk. Crossing streets
he moves on ahead,
does not offer me his elbow
does not look back
to see I’ve made it safely around
the expanses of water off curbs.
Inside The Wormhole,
he orders me Earl Grey tea.
He drinks espresso while we sit
apart on a couch, close enough
to hear our fits and starts
of conversation over the hum
of strangers around us.
We were 80s babies,
grew up with what’s around us:
Ghostbusters and Indiana Jones
movie posters, classic Nintendo,
computer monitor the size of
a mini fridge, and above us,
a reconstructed DeLorean,
traveling to no future.
Drifting on the once infinite sea
of things to say,
we are nearing shore,
where it looks dry, and warm.
Katherine Van Eddy is a California-born poet who now lives in Washington State. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Common Ground Review, Creative Colloquy, Gold Man Review, Cirque, and Clover. She has a BA in Creative Writing, MAT in Elementary Education, and MFA in Poetry from the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. Katherine loves mothering her two kids and cat, Dexter. She feels most at home anywhere near water.