Epistle to J

Dear J:

We sat on your deck overlooking the Salmon River estuary,

once wrecked,

now resurrecting.

Some people do smarten up,

see the errors,

make it right.

It might take decades.

Snow fell lightly at dusk.

Sliding glass door open

because it was 80 degrees inside your house

courtesy of the wood stove fire you so expertly stoked.

I have never seen anyone demonstrate more expertise with a wood stove,

especially in the nude.

You, a combination of Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” and Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet.”

Snow falls like this once a decade on the Oregon Coast.

The moment must be seized.

We drank red wine out of glasses with enormous bowls holding a half bottle each.

They were a novelty and we put them to novel use.

My invalid husky slept inside. How you loved her. Painted her portrait.

Your living room an art studio, a gallery of your art.

Easels, frames, canvases, paints, palettes, brushes, vises, clamps, tools, thinner, rags, drop cloths.

Everything strewn around in happy disorder.

We were going to collaborate on a children’s book, your idea.

I loved the outline.

You said you wanted snow to fall on your naked a body, a fantasy.

You stripped and it became real,

snowflakes landing,

melting on the fittest body I have ever held.

Fitness from a chainsaw, post-hole digger, mowing fields, slaying blackberries, chopping wood and cleaning vacation rentals to finance art, originality and independence.

You asked me not to drive home to Astoria in the morning.

A possible foot of snow on Cascade Head.

You asked me to stay.

I had no work site that required my presence.

I left in the morning because that’s who I was back then.

You made me French press coffee to go.

As I crested Cascade Head, I fishtailed, spun a 360,

but somehow stayed in the same lane.

All I had to do was turn around, slide downhill,

to you, that fire, that fitness.

I would have never left.