Diary of an Absence June 10, 1992 I am constantly reaching for something beyond my grasp, something that no longer exists. I wonder whether or not I touch the undersides of the green leaves lightened by sun — his eyes as I first described them. Occasionally I fish out a corroded penny from the sharp-edged sculpture pool, stealing wishes from their owners. * * * April 2, 1992 A grapevine, if given long enough to grow, will weave itself around a lattice; intricately, the vine will complement its crosshatches. By removing the woodwork, the vine will keep its twisted shapes, now twining around space. The vine's configuration will remind it of an absence. April 14, 1992 The flashing neon phone has been calling. It flickers my ex's name in Morse Code when I am near. Its rhythm is uncannily like our rhythms for eleven hours one night into morning. Perhaps if I were as compartmentalized as he, I would lock the drawer with his abandoned clothes and continue as a friend. The phone would be relieved. April 30, 1992 Miami frustrates me. I see it typewritten on a vendor's envelope at work, and I think of palm trees, beaches, and under his leather jacket beneath the Spanish style rooftops in the light of a full moon, kisses with his cologne in my nostrils. I wake up sometimes to that smell, but no longer in his bedroom as he knocks on the window while he is weeding. May 31, 1992 The night he left ... he crawled out of bed, saying, "If I stay any longer, I won't be able to leave." He dressed, took his hangers, then headed for the door. At the last instant, he set his boxes down and came back to my bedside. We kissed briefly; I was touched by his consideration. Within a week, I knew that the dresser would be mine. * * * June 11, 1992 The wings of the 757 weeped in rain, carried me home. His earthy nature is too soft for return landings.