Border Trouble

"Well I guess you're going to have to go back home then."

I thought the punk was flirting with me. He was 19, blond and smirking.

And not kidding. or flirting.

He sent me to customs where I cried. I'd left my passport at home. It was only Canada after all.

The tears got me through but it turned out, the snarky, not-flirting Canadian border patrol was right: I should have gone home.

Because once I emerged -- teary and frazzled and terrified and thrilled -- into the sea of waiting people, dead straight into your strong arms, it was too late.

***

"This is great!" you said, surprised, your hand on my knee in your car. You knew your way around the snowy February old city. You were both confident as if we'd been lovers for years and tender as if every touch was new, important.

I wanted it to be so very much. I wanted to be new and life-filled and young and beautiful. I wanted it for you. You needed it so much.