grace

I was driving home from Lakewood

late tonight, crossing town for the second time,

passing her street for the second time today,

and, yes, this time I gave in and drove past her house.

There were two cars in the driveway,

the lights were out, and I just went by,

as if it is not the place she shares with someone else,

as if it were not the place filled with memories for me:

her kissing me by the door,

her kissing me in the kitchen,

me kissing her on the steps,

crying in her bed so many times,

from joy and thanksgiving.

Even the mundane: painting her rooms,

painting her garage door, fixing her window,

baking the Oscar salami roll, delivering her chair,

eating prime rib, listening to music,

and, the most lovely,

resting on her couch, my head on her lap.

But by the time I made it to Carnegie

I was shouting, screaming above the Coldplay.

And, ten minutes later, I was crying on Cedar Hill.

The light at Fairmount was red so I pulled next to a white car,

every one it decked out from a night out on the town.

A man in the back seat was laughing and smiling,

talking to the two people in the front.

He turned and looked at me and saw my face,

twisted, troubled. I held his glance for a second longer,

then cried harder, as the light turned green.

Then something unexpected. His window lowered,

and his brown beautiful hand came out into the night.

He gave me a peace sign, then to make sure I had seen it,

he wiggled his fingers and raised it higher.

When we met again at the next light, he looked at me,

and I looked at him, and there was no shame,

there was no racial divide. No gay or straight.

There were no strangers, nothing separated him from me.

He had no idea what I was thinking or why I might be crying.

He had no inkling of what might be wrong,

and, without hesitating, he offered me the only thing he could,

and the only thing that might heal me.

He gave me peace, he wished for my peace.

And then, in that white car, my miracle drove away.