I remember the smell of your curls when I hugged you, the way they brushed against my face and tickled my cheeks. I remember the feel of your hands when they shaped around my waist and held me tight. I remember when I would roll out of bed and sneak downstairs, the house was empty and my bare feet would slightly stick to your wood floor. I remember I would make my way gently to the kitchen where you would be flipping through a magazine, drinking a hot coffee with a pair of glasses in your hair, one on the counter next to your mug and one on your face, slightly titled off your nose. The bird nest that lie on my head pretending to be hair swayed and bobbed, my thighs imprinted with the shape of my sheets and my legs bare. I paddled towards you with a tired grin on my face and your eyes shifted and looked up at me. I remember you chirped “Hi B!” loudly and your face was bright and joyous. Spring encircled you, pastel shades of blue, yellows greens and creams filled the air around you, like a muse you padded your bare feet just like mine towards me, bare like a babes bum at birth we stood there our love free for one another. Just like that you held me tight and went back to your magazine, I remember I didn’t mind, I went on about with making my breakfast. Still half asleep I shuffled through the refrigerator. I remember you tapped my bum lightly, put your mug in the sink and kissed me on the cheek swinging your spring around with every move you made. I remember I loved you most then, for knowing me and for the way I knew you. I remember I yawned and stumbled a bit for the stool next to you like a lost mole with no eyes. I set my toast and glass of milk on the counter next you and spoke in a hoarse voice, “Good morning B.” I cleared my throat “I love you matante” another smile tugged at my lips and my day was instantly better, I remember because you we there. I remember that my aunt silently took care of me that morning.

—Béa

Sit down and listen. Listen to Muddy Waters, listen to John Lee Hooker, listen to your dads old records. Go through your uncle’s cd collection, wander to a blues bar downtown. Sit down with an old man and a beer, light up his pipe and sing him a tune. He will nod his head and enjoy the young soft melody of the nonsense you are humming. You can bet a fortune that you will inspire him, the old man will get up and might not even speak but with the snap of his fingers and tap of feet he will create a sensation and you won’t even mind because that type of old man is the wisest of the wise.
Listen to some blues, it’ll bring you back from where you were going and weren’t meant to be and drop you off to where you should go.
Listen to blues and sing me a tune.

She sat still, sullen almost and stared across into nothing. Her husband read an article of some sorts on his phone and seemed content with the silence between him and his wife.
Her fingers lightly tapped on the armrest of the couch she sat in. Her sharp, wrinkled face was now framed with jaw length white hair. Her eyes were charcoal black and had deep lines around them, which made it seem like she was looking into the sun and constantly squinting. Her mouth was a thin pink line set across her hollow face that had sagged with the years.
I could vividly imagine her when she was young, still sharp and bird-like but with more elegance, more liveliness. She used to have long brown, almost black hair that draped her face with soft waves and fell down to her lower back. She used to wear long cream skirts and hippie beads. Her arms were filled with makeshift bracelets and her ears held long feather earrings. She used to play football, bare foot in the sand with her strangers she would meat on her way to nowhere. She was free, like a bird. Flying as high as a quite, cut from it’s string. She was young, back then she wasn’t tied down. She only spoke if what she was going to say had a purpose and a meaning and she was soft but brutal. Her words rendered you breathless. Now, she sits, content, sullen, detached.
Her snow white hair frames her dace and tells a tale of her youth. She sits in silence next to man who’s skin is stained of knowledge and his eyes hazed with tales of his young days. His hair gone white from its original deep blonde and his eyes faded grey from what used to be blue.
They sat, content with the past and open to the future.
They sat, in silence, detached, almost ready, but not quite yet.

I miss your smile
I miss your face
I miss your lips
I miss your taste
I miss your smooth mouth upon my neck
I miss your arms that keep me in check
I miss your smell
I miss your eyes
I miss your rough touch
I miss your long hugs
I miss your gentle love
I miss your heavy breath
I miss your heavy heart
I miss your soul
I miss your voice
I miss the way I was with you
I miss you in every way possible
I miss you with every inch of my being
I miss us.

Darling can you hear me now, I am getting near. If only if only the lone wolf could cry. If only you were a character in a book, then I could love you forever. Each page I turn you would grow and I would grow to love you more. Every page I turned your life would shorten but then when I finally shut my book and think about the story that had been told you live in eternity within the pages. You leap from chapter and chapter and trail words of beauty and wisdom behind you. The lines you hop and the spaces you skip, if only you were a character in a book, then you could live on forever. I could take you with me were ever I go, you could fit in my bag or under my arm. I would shield you if it rained and I’d open you up over a nice cup of tea or in the park on a sunny day. I could smell the pages you linger on and rejoice in the authenticity of it. But you are not in my books and even if you were someone else wrote you in and they wrote you the way they like you. Not the way I like you, so even in a book that last forever you still wouldn’t be mine. If only I could write you into my very own book then maybe I could love you.

—Béa