the five year plan (first draft & revision)
i’ll say, ‘come with me. don’t be afraid,’ and you’ll say, ‘okay’ and then with one pack each, we’ll get on a plane.
we’ll head south, to chile, brazil, or maybe peru. explore the rainforest, dance, see machu picchu. we’ll learn local phrases and write them on the backs of postcards. some we will keep, others we will send in the mail to greet familiar faces.
we’ll stop by nepal in order to feel small and make love in the shadow of something unmovable.
we’ll see the hills in new zealand, walk the great wall.
i’ll show you my old stomping grounds by the coloseum, where i learned things start to crumble when you try and be what you once were.
you’ll make sure that i see the eiffle tower, all lit up and sparkling, just like i’ve always wanted. i’ll turn to you and say, “have you ever seen anything to beautiful?” and you’ll turn to me and say, “i’m looking at her” and i’ll laugh at you.
when our feet are tired we’ll head to the mountains and get a brick house with very small rooms and very big windows. it’ll have a back yard and solar panels on the roof.
we’ll hold hands as we stand in front of it, and you’ll turn to me and say “what do you think?” and i’ll turn to you and say, “of all the things we’ve seen, your face in the morning is my favorite” and you’ll laugh at me.
sometimes the shower will be cold but your company will make it warm; the front door that squeaks will become a comforting ‘welcome home’; and you’ll build a big garden out back .i’ll help if you want but i’m no good with plants.
i’ll unpack our photographs and mount them on the walls, making sure to leave space for new ones.
i’ll place sunflowers in vases all around the house to remind us to always follow the sun because sometimes, we’ll forget. we are, after all, incomplete stories that need editing and you might say something mean and i could be inconsiderate, so i’ll hide away in the room that i made for writing or go next door and have a glass of wine and bucket of words with the neighbor and you’ll get on a bike that takes you miles and miles from our home
but you’ll always come back, and so will i because
every sunday evening, we’ll drink a beer and sit in the garden and admire the way that each plant needs the others in order to grow.
i'll say, "you can do it. don't be afraid. then i'll say "okay" and then with one pack, i will get on a plane.
i’ll head south, to chile, brazil, or maybe peru. explore the rainforest, dance, see machu picchu. i'll learn local phrases and write them on the backs of postcards. some i will keep, others i'll send in the mail to greet familiar faces.
we’ll stop by nepal in order to feel small and be reminded that some things in life are immovable
i will see the hills in new zealand and i will walk the great wall
i’ll go back to my old stomping grounds by the coloseum, where i learned things start to crumble when you try and be what you once were.
i will make sure that i see the eiffle tower, all lit up and sparkling, just like i’ve always wanted. i might think of you then, when you aren't there to turn to
when my feet get tired i'll head to the mountains and get a brick house with very small rooms and very big windows.
i'll paint the front door bright yellow with pink and blue polka dots when i want to and fill my room with knick-knacks that make me smile when i open my eyes each morning.
sometimes the shower will be cold but the laughter of friends will keep me warm; the front door that squeaks will become a comforting ‘welcome home’; and i'll try to start a garden out back but the tomato plants will probably die.
i’ll unpack my photographs and mount them on the walls, making sure to leave space for new memories.
i’ll place sunflowers in vases all around the house to remind myself to always follow the sun because sometimes, i forget. i am, afterall, an imcomplete story in need of editing. i might feel the emptyness of the room somedays and become overwhelmed by the quiet so i'll go next door for a glass of wine and a bucket of words with the neighbor or get in my car and drive miles and miles from where i call home,
but i'll always come back because
every sunday evening, i will drink a beer and sit in my backyard and realize the weeds are more beautiful than the garden that i had envisioned anyway.
