He used to tell me things about myself, teach me things, I wasn't ready to know. Back then those moments stung like the second after a good hard slap. I reacted badly, almost every time.

Now - when he shows me things in the same way, I can take it as is, or leave it. It doesn't usually sting anymore. Sometimes he still hits me where it hurts. He knows me well enough that every once in awhile he still finds a place that stings. But somehow the journey to here, where we are now, has softened even those blows. I know where it comes from; I know what he means.

(not sure which of us has grown...maybe both,I guess. People do that after all.)

Still... he's not always happy with me, sometimes he questions my take on things, my need to do certain things a certain way. It seems, often, that he abhors the expected. He still opens a window for me; a window on myself that everyone else leaves closed. He's not polite. I kind of hope he never is.

remember when?

I always somehow hope for that feeling...you know the one? The one where it seems no time has passed at all since you last saw one another?

We had that once, she and I. No matter how long it was between visits, between talks - somehow it always seemed like we had just been there, sitting on our rock telling absolutely everything to each other.

I always hope for that feeling. The familiar affection coming with ease. The remembered confidences. The shared laughs. As I look through old photos and remember... I always hope for that feeling.

another song contemplation...

If you've had a song written about you. A song you know is about you. And it's not so flattering... I wonder how that feels to hear it over and over.

"Ok, Diane, here's your fucking song." -Paul Bellows