I wrote a poem once

I wrote a poem once.

It was about fog

How the fog set in on the fields

Just as day turned to night

A road in a rural setting

Windows down in a modest car

the scent of cut grass coming through the window

The fog set in on the fields

As I drove alone

I wrote the poem

For a woman I loved

She knew I loved her,

Or, I think she did

I wrote a poem, once

For a woman I loved

And now, she's gone

And I never said those words

Just sent her the poem in an email

When I think of emailing her now,

a lump grows in my throat

I think of that poem

of the songs we both loved

Of the connection we both felt

Of the words I never said out loud

And I know I can't talk to her, can't send

her another poem

She's gone

Not just gone from me

Gone from the world

Her body rests below the earth

near one of those fields

The fog sets in as day turns to night

And wraps her in its arms

And my prayer, my hope

Is that in that fog, she hears my words

"I love you"

Have a Good Day

Dear Dad,

I hope you always have a good day.

Thank you for taking care of me.

I love you.


He kept this note, on paper shaped like a heart, in the center drawer of his desk.

He looked at it nearly every day. 

His daughter, 6, had given it to him one morning as he was walking out the door.

He had put it in the center drawer on a cold and gray day.

And forgotten it, mostly.  As bills and documents and notes filled his desk.  As he tried earnestly, then desperately to get a call back, to get an interview.

Then, one warm, bright day he opened that drawer.  And saw the note.  Remembered exactly the day she had given it to him.

He sobbed uncontrollably.  He threw the clock from his desk to the opposite wall and delighted in watching it shatter on the ground.  He threw a box of envelopes.  He pounded on his desk. He cried some more.

He knew that in just two months, all the money and all the access to money would be gone.  That the illusion of his "going to work" would be exposed.  That the only thing he had done since the writing of that note was "pretend" to work and organize funds to keep things going.  At least through the school year so that wouldn't be disturbed.

They had a summer vacation coming up.  After that, not long after that, it would be over.

By July, he'd hit 6 months of unemployment.  And the few small "client contracts" he had barely paid his office rent. 

He'd heard a news story about how people who have been unemployed for 6 months or more NEVER got hired.  It was automatic wastebasket for their resumes.  Not even an interview.  Call it unemployment discrimination or just figuring that if this person was good, they'd have gotten a job within 6 months of losing the last one.  So, out of 100 resumes received, 10-15 could be automatically thrown out just based on dates. 

He know that about three weeks after the vacation, he'd hit the 6 month mark.  He'd had exactly two interviews.  And then the letters about how better, stronger candidates had been chosen for final interviews. 

Thank you for taking care of me, she'd written.

And he had been.  For almost 7 years.  And for years before that by being a good steward of his income and managing the household finances frugally.  But now he couldn't imagine changing the lifestyle to which she'd become accustomed. 

He looked at the note every single day after the day when he cried and threw a fit. 

It reminded him to keep working, keep looking, keep fighting. It made him smile when he thought of his daughter and her love for him.  And the deep, strong love he felt for her - a love he'd never felt for anyone else. 

I hope you always have a good day.

Such a simple plea, really.  And when he returned home, he tried to make it seem true.  He hugged her and threw her up in his arms. 

He wondered if she had any idea about the sadness inside him.  Wondered if she could sense a change. 

He knew that on the upcoming family vacation, he'd be robbed of joy.  There'd be a moment or two where he'd be lost and blissfully enjoying his surroundings and the quiet family peace.  But they'd be short and at night, he'd think of returning home, of a three week limit.  Of an ugly end to a summer. 

Would school start with his daughter telling her friends My Daddy lost his job, but it's alright.  We're getting an apartment?

Would he get a call? Or a new client? Or a contract? 

Would money fall from the sky?  Would it be smart to spend $5 a week on lottery tickets or save that money for when the going got really, really tough?

Maybe he could through September?

After he started his morning with an email to each of his few clients and some job browsing and resume distribution, he'd started browsing online classifieds for women.

Maybe the comfort a woman for an hour or two would help him forget?  Or maybe he'd find someone similarly desperate and they could steal away a few times a week and escape into each other's kisses for a moment or more. 

And then, he'd send an email or two.  Maybe send and receive a photo. 

Then, open that center desk drawer and read, I hope you always have a good day.

And he wouldn't reply to the next email or he'd delete the thread and he'd circle back to the job boards and his network and see what he might work on that would allow him to keep taking care of the girl to whom he was everything. 

He began to feel tension in his shoulders and neck.  Ran the shower at night hotter and hotter.  Turned the music up in the car on the way home.  Added weight-lifting to his running routine.  Eventually, he'd end up masturbating every single day before he left his office.  And for 10 minutes, maybe 15, the stress would just float away. 

But, back in the car facing traffic, it would be back.

One month.  Two.  Then it's over. 

For now, he tucks the note back in the drawer. And opens the email about the condo where his family will be in less than seven days.  Maps out the route. And tries to forget that after the beach comes the end.