Blazing across your face, it spreads fast and untamed as wildfire.
Grey as concrete on an autumn afternoon.
Itchy as a forgotten word on the tip of your tongue.
You convince yourself you look distinguished, sophisticated, the name is Fornelli, john Fornelli.
And then the sister-in-law sends an old photo. You and A. on the couch. E. a little bigger than a football; swaddled, suckling on a soother. Your goatee rich, brown, the color of “mocha” in your daughters pallet of paint: pure, untainted. Not a hint that the season is about to change.
But it has.
So unannounced. So uninvited. So full of presumption that you contemplate asking it to leave. But can’t find the words.
In minute it will be but fallen whiskers dirtying the bottom of the sink.
You rub your smooth cheeks. Smile at the thought of separating without goodbye.
John's Writing 