Frank and Willow #3

  (Photo origin unknown)
We met on a balcony,during a party,Frank and I. I was struggling with drinks with my friend Judy.Frank was watching Leo and Tony hang the lights.Arguing all the while. And then walked over in his very casual way,and began helping me. I however argued with him.Until we talked about the war. And other things. We finally left and he took me to a place the war hadn’t reached quite yet. An artist by the name of Picasso  had a showing in town. At a collectors house. Even though his work was banned.We went-and we drank. 

I couldn’t tell you much else…

I accused Frank of being too American.He was late for everything. Late for the war. Late for the dance. And I was engaged. I was hard headed. Furious. You had to be back then. Otherwise the Sharks would eat you alive. 

But we kept seeing each other.until the days grew into weeks. And we didn’t talk about the war.We didn’t talk about the past. We talked only of the future. And eventually. Paris was free again. And the war had ended. And we were still together. The years-turned into decades.But when I look back. I think of those lights and that party. That night. 

I never knew what he did…not exactly. We didn’t talk of that. We were living in it. We survived by talking of the future.that sustained us. He’s the reason I’m here today. 

Willow looked out the window.Then slowly rising from her chair. She looked at the girl from the paper writing every word down. “They don’t make them like that,not anymore.when the darkness comes,we become light,even for each other.everyone deserves great sex,and great love,great companionship.remember that.Its what we do this for. We make art out of it. But others make war.

Sara closed her note pad. Tried hard to swallow. “Wow that’s some story,Mrs Grey.” She had everything she could think of. Her story. Some photographs. She got up from the couch. “Thank you so much for sharing this.Really.” 

Willow only smiled. “Hey I was young once. And a journalist,like you. I wanted the story. Now I am the story. It’s just the circle.” 



It’s been two years
Since my father died
Just this month …

You don’t think about
Time passing
About growing up
Or about how everything
Is different now
You don’t think about him
Whenever old men
Harass young women
And you take them outside
And get in their face
You don’t
Think about all the driving lessons
When you almost wrecked your car
Or how you finally
Learned how to write
Without being angry
You don’t think
Everything just levels
And time moves
And you really start to live
Understanding that
We all are flawed