The once-upon-a-time, the long-ago-but-not-forgotten.
The one who taught me how to kiss and sing harmony to his melody
as he played the guitar. The one who really taught me how to kiss
and quite a bit more, and whose young man muskiness lingered
in his sheets, the ones I couldn’t wait to return to. The one who
taught me to juggle because he had to learn as a theater major
before he ran away with a circus. The ones who taught me
to process film and print photos in a red-tinged darkroom.
(And a bit more in the dark rooms, too.) The one who taught me
how to catch a softball, which my father tried to do, but could not—
though he did teach me how to jack up a car and change a tire.
The one who loved me on an inflatable raft in a river.
The one who taught me never to leave a clear glass in the sink
when your boyfriend is visually impaired, and to always, always,
replace the cap on the toothpaste. The one who married me.
The one who takes me to Hawaii and the California coast
because he knows how much I love ocean, and buys me
my favorite socks and feeds my cats when I ask, and
feeds me, feeds me, feeds me, all of which are ways
Guys Say They Love You. And oh, the one who, in third grade,
was not a proper boyfriend but was the first boy I fell in love with
after he pointed out the stain on the back of my dress
and gave me his cardigan, saying, “Maybe you could
tie this around you,” so the stain wouldn’t show.
The ones whom I have not properly thanked. Until now.
Thank you, my dear, good men. Amen.

•••

(Especially to the one who died six years ago today and who came back
and who walks with me still, Dickie Dean, the one who has my heart
for all time.)