Tabula Rasa

She reads me like an open book -
a story not quite finished.
Her pen makes scratching noises
as she writes; quill on parchment -
chisel to stone. What will she write?
How will I unravel or,
how will her story go?

"Remember when you zipped me up
in a duffle bag and locked me in the bathroom?"
Yeah, I remembered; sort of.
"Will you add songs to my IPod,
PLEASE - we'll go see a movie; I'll pay!"
"Yeah sure," I droned.
I loaded up her music machine,
but movie day never came.

She was on a plane by then -
plastic speakers in her ear
from music – or a movie.
Cell phones troubled attentive stewards, so –
no texting aloud.
I wish I’d gotten her that journal.

I stumble into her room -
she's there of course, only in pictures:
cheerleading, tennis, her high school diploma –
a wooden sign carved
"Step-On-Me" from shop class
centered above her television set.
I didn’t even give her that name – my stupid friend did.

Her Dad spends more time around these days;
a casino jockey - life savings lost on
Lucky - a horse that made fourth place.
Diamond Jim’s is what he calls it –
an arcade for the elderly and addicted
to be more accurate.
His bright red Corvette parked in front
sticks out like an apple in a basket of bananas.

I wonder if she’ll write about him,
while I twist the green suede journal around in my hands –
no need for wrapping,
it was beautiful the way it was.
My fingers trace the ancient symbols
stitched on the front flap
Wabi-Sabi
as I turn it over to reveal the blank pages.