Maybe a Fiddlehead?

Everything I say will be an assumption. There is no way of getting around it. Unless, that is, I was to leave you alone, and say nothing.

But, that would defeat the point of this exercise.

I lay in the grass, spread-eagled atop the damp earth, and you are standing at your window. Indistinct, and silent.

I snap open the can, hear the hiss of carbonation, and muster the energy to give you a Nod.

This beer tastes like dirt, flecked with Salt and new-grown leaves. There's the tiniest sweetness in the back of my throat as I swallow, the tiniest of Hopes.

Birds flutter overhead; they flit from branch to branch in the bushes and trees. Their music helps me pass the time as I gaze up at you.

Crotchedy New Englanders make me laugh. Their stubborn refusal to admit they care about puppies, flowers, their families, or themselves keep me watching.

They don't need fixing; Neither do You.

I wonder if you and your sister scrounged through spring time mud, searching for fiddleheads. I wonder if you cupped the uncurled ferns in your hand before letting them plunk into a bucket at your feet.

Rain patters down across my face. The water trickles down my cheeks like it slides down your window pane. Lightning Screams through the Darkling sky as I take another swallow.

It might just be the memory of light flashing behind my eyes, but you might be smiling. Maybe.

"Who was it for?" I want to ask. "How did it help you?" I take another swallow.

Your skeletal hand traces along the glass as the rain comes down in sheets. The birds have gone Quiet, the only sound is the water tapping against the Metal of the can.

"I want the entire world to read my words." I say to the raging storm, to your ever-distant expression. "What do you think of that?"

Your eyes are dark shadows in the gloom. The sodden earth pulls at me, and I know I must be going soon. I fear all I've done is bother you.

But, the Last Gulp is full of wood and sunshine. Even in the Dregs there is that tiny bit of sweetness, tiny bit of hope.

We will never speak. I will never know how you felt when they published your poetry. I will never know.

You step away from the window, the rain has slowed, and I crush the can in my fist. "I must Make my Own choices." I say sitting up, the wet earth clinging to my clothes.

I won't ever get to know you the way I want, I may always feel guilty that they shared your words wit the world.

At least I had this dream, this surreal comfort in knowing that you did exist. I hear the birdsong Emily, I taste the Earth, and perhaps We will dream again.