You’re in my paradise.
“What do you mean?”
We were reading Walt
Whitman, and the teacher asked us each to picture our own perfect paradise. I
closed my eyes, and immediately found myself in a field, in the country, you
know? I think it was St. Francisville. I
was wearing a white, flowing dress and I felt beautiful.
“You are beautiful.”
Hush. So I walking
around in the field, and then I saw you.
“What was I doing?”
Talking to another girl.
“Really? I would be
talking to you, of course!”
I know, I know. So
anyway, there were a lot of people in the field
--“Oh, So I’m not the
only person in your paradise.”
No, you weren’t. There
were strangers and friends. All just
wondering around, perfectly happy.
“Sounds like a hippie
commune.”
No, no, it was an actual
paradise, though. And so I see you talking to this girl, and I simply float
over to you and you leave her immediately.
“Good”
And then we were just
together. Happy, no jealousy or…well no jealously. No pain. Just us in a field,
holding hands.
“I think I like your
paradise.”
I like it too.
