To my dearest, my darling, and the most essential piece to the life I always desired.
Miniatures will prance the great greens, over heartland grounds under the perfect sky.
Our breath, at ease but sustained for them, diminishes with talks of what matters.
They giggle, and a little more before I race to twirl the one with the pigtails.
I took the left side, you on the right, but then correcting the left as you find a sliver of my love in my work.
She always hated my braiding but like her mother, she was just being considerate of me.
Tiny jack asses with enough charm to fool both of us, snicker along the wide open spaces, not knowing that their mischief shapes the one with the pigtails.
They bicker as we remain in our thrones, rocking back and forth next to the screen door.
Pigtails falls to the ground, ridden with loose gravel and ant colonies.
You and I mimic twitches in each of our muscles as our “little cubbies” lift her upright before I can blink.
Just a nick.
Nothing a little dirt can’t help.
After nursing up ol’ pigtails, we yelped shoutins of the moon looking over her.
She cooed and she exhaled a joyful chuckle with her tiny palms rapidly colliding.
Her smile, missing the tooth that was once attached to a string and a door knob, took care of illuminating the moon that night.
We departed with an eskimo kiss and one on the nose.
Passing by was a light gust of wind on our commute next door to the boys that open your car door instead of me.
One shirtless, another wrapped in our last roll of toilet paper and on the brink of being introduced to the corner of the nightstand.
We intervene with pseudo-anger.
Their faces were petrified, as we aren’t usually angry people.
Their stress is alleviated as I put one in a headlock and you cover the other little runt with his own t-shirt.
We send them off to the mighty moon with hugs straining newfound muscles and a tussle of their hair.
You and I, we then fall horizontal, as our cheeks grow sore thanks to the tiny versions of ourselves.
You’ll remind me that pigtails’ second grade class Christmas party is Friday, and to remember that I am there for her whenever my head scrambles more eggs than it can handle.
And you’ll sound like a drip of honey when you say it, tussling my hair more so out of admiration this time.
You’ll feel my gratitude when you see the photograph of us, her with a blue mouth from frosted cookies, a few of them in fact, and me with my second pair of eyes and my ink in my shirt pocket.
However, we debrief each other on our thoughts throughout the day, mostly buttering up our little roommates, both of us hoping they grow better than us.
Hoping the great greens teach them more than my almost windless rambles that might chime through their future minds like ancient church bells.
I assure you the front door is locked, and tell you that even if there were an intruder, I’ve got a gun at the end of both of my arms.
You let out your saccharine, obligatory giggle and wrap your angelic hands around my self-proclaimed artillery, reassuring me that you love my will to maintain safety.
But then you talk about the stars, and how they used to seem so arbitrarily scattered.
But now, they make sense.
They send a message, one long awaited.
You’ve always had an ethereal connection with the universe, one I’ve envied but more so found inspirational.
I’m proud to learn from you each day, especially since I know pigtails snagged a bit of your noggin’, and perhaps one of the skinheads too.
Our crackly window, still open enough for the wind to sway the curtains, premiered the stars the way they do those of Hollywood.
I ask, “What do they say?”
Your god-crafted face is puzzled but stoic.
“Welcome home, finally,” you say with a raspy voice and misty eyes.
We instantly lock eyes, the way we always do when we both realize we are exactly where we need to be, perfectly together.
Your cheeks gloriously rise as the freckle beneath my eye folds into my upcoming crow’s feet.
We don’t say a word, because the stars in our eyes say all they need.
Finally, welcome home.
Welcome home indeed.
cole manasco 