By Rebecca L. Morrison
It was raining when we hugged --
me atop the curb, your feet
on the street, and you were still
taller by a head. I wanted
to give you one
of those bear hugs with both
arms, so the umbrella fell
by my feet, and I let
the December drizzle wash over
us. You nearly lost
your footing when I
leaned against you with all
my weight. Over coffee, you told me
I'd grown, but all that's grown
are the three years we've spent
apart. I haven't grown without
you. When your Jeep grew
smaller with distance, patches
of dusky sunshine dappled
the Shenandoah skyline, and
I wondered where
the rays had been, why they'd left
me for the drizzle that ran
my mascara, four days
before Christmas.
