1:15 p.m. - 2005-11-29
Fool's Gold Rant
For seven years, I had relaxed into John's friendship like a worn pair of jeans. Familiar. Soft. A bit baggy. I had watched him dig in the garden, grinning as he fetched and toted the gallon cans of roses, leaving in his wake a profusion the color of hope. Reluctantly, I would dole out the obligatory, metered hug at the end of each task. It was all he asked. Later in the evening, John would leave a message thanking me for the opportunity to get his hands dirty, closing with that little chuckle that irritated me so. Thanking me. Annoyed, I would quickly erase it, holding disdain for this indentured slave. How had I been so blind? It had taken me all this time to recognize that, for John, love was a verb. Accustomed to the bait and switch of poetic, abusive men, John had managed to fly well below my radar. Again and again, I had retreated to follow some feather in the wind, finally losing sight of true north. Mining fool's gold had become my inadvertent trade.
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