The milk aisle of a Safeway in Old Town, Fort Collins.
Empty florescent lights and hollow aisles, slightly stained off-white tiles, rows and rows of pristinely packaged food stuffs, neat and clean.
White gallon jugs and white cartons and white bottles, almond and soy and rice and dairy: like a little refrigerated city stretching down the back of the store, and there was no one else and the young girl sat cross-legged on the floor with the city of milk behind her and I sat in front of her.
Something was in love. Something soft and humming like the moths in the lights, something sleepy and beautiful but it wasn't young love between people, it was something more. Something louder than a shadow of wet floor signs and something rarer than the vomit beside them.
The same feeling occurred then that occurred in the music store: the feeling of childhood. Of fragility and safety and calm. Void of responsibility and consequence. And somewhere in the empty superstore a squeaky cart moved down an aisle and somewhere a restroom door closed and the lights hummed down in a softspoken splendor over the milk, the milk, the milk.
And it was love, all of it love, whispering through the music in the car. Familiar and warm, without the repercussions of being held in human hands, it fluttered and flew in and out the car windows, in and out of our lungs. It rejoiced and it told no lies.
And remnants of this love stuck to the kitchen sink, and it was smiling and laughing and holding on to the edges of light and happiness and sound as the music played while music could be found.
An enormous weight removed itself, if only for a moment. A hand of love on your shoulder. Refuge in the milk aisle of a Safeway, holding a ninety-nine-cent bag of off-brand marshmallows, laughing in the afternoon.
Moments of believability. Small glimpses of bliss, shouts from the other end of the void. Caught in the milk net. Tumbling out, laughing. The humming of florescent friendship.
Moments.
Take pictures. Write notes. Sign 'love' before your name.
Pain does not make joy. Objective perspective changes no substance of these theocratic moments held suspended in space and time. We hold a responsibility to touch the beauty of our lives, to hold it where it can be held and to watch it as it leaves us.
I hold no obligation to edit this post.
Poetry makes no difference to the recorded occurrence of love in a Safeway milk aisle.
Empty florescent lights and hollow aisles, slightly stained off-white tiles, rows and rows of pristinely packaged food stuffs, neat and clean.
White gallon jugs and white cartons and white bottles, almond and soy and rice and dairy: like a little refrigerated city stretching down the back of the store, and there was no one else and the young girl sat cross-legged on the floor with the city of milk behind her and I sat in front of her.
Something was in love. Something soft and humming like the moths in the lights, something sleepy and beautiful but it wasn't young love between people, it was something more. Something louder than a shadow of wet floor signs and something rarer than the vomit beside them.
The same feeling occurred then that occurred in the music store: the feeling of childhood. Of fragility and safety and calm. Void of responsibility and consequence. And somewhere in the empty superstore a squeaky cart moved down an aisle and somewhere a restroom door closed and the lights hummed down in a softspoken splendor over the milk, the milk, the milk.
And it was love, all of it love, whispering through the music in the car. Familiar and warm, without the repercussions of being held in human hands, it fluttered and flew in and out the car windows, in and out of our lungs. It rejoiced and it told no lies.
And remnants of this love stuck to the kitchen sink, and it was smiling and laughing and holding on to the edges of light and happiness and sound as the music played while music could be found.
An enormous weight removed itself, if only for a moment. A hand of love on your shoulder. Refuge in the milk aisle of a Safeway, holding a ninety-nine-cent bag of off-brand marshmallows, laughing in the afternoon.
Moments of believability. Small glimpses of bliss, shouts from the other end of the void. Caught in the milk net. Tumbling out, laughing. The humming of florescent friendship.
Moments.
Take pictures. Write notes. Sign 'love' before your name.
Pain does not make joy. Objective perspective changes no substance of these theocratic moments held suspended in space and time. We hold a responsibility to touch the beauty of our lives, to hold it where it can be held and to watch it as it leaves us.
I hold no obligation to edit this post.
Poetry makes no difference to the recorded occurrence of love in a Safeway milk aisle.
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