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Two Little Words

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The first time I ever came to Arizona was to visit one of my dearest and oldest friends.  Mary.

She was living in Tucson and we packed up some wine and fresh apples and headed out on a road trip–in hunt for the best place to catch the lunar eclipse.

We made it as far as Sedona.

Both our first time–and way before the round-abouts and fancy, manicured roads.  And like a clip from the movie Thelma & Louise, our car broke down the minute we made it there.  But of course some handsome guy came strolling by (only moments later) with a tow truck and a wicked smile.

I remember that day and my silly rose colored sunglasses–
the ones that made those red rocks look like fire.

And yes, Mary and I saw the eclipse.
Over a bottle of red wine.
We walked those Sedona streets at night,
arm-in-arm,
laughing so hard
and yelling who-knows-what at the sky.

I was somewhere in my twenties then.  Skinny.  Long hair, and blonde.

But I knew right then. Like in an instant.  That one day I’d live in Arizona.
That Sedona would become a trusted friend.
That the desert had something valuable to teach me.

Just like magic, five years pass.
Hansel and I sell all our belongings
and drive across the great US of A.
We settle in Phoenix and slowly accumulate a bunch of things.

So now I lay here
on our bed.
The seamless evening sky above.
The desert softly below.

I would have never guessed in a million years
what lessons laid ahead.

I just knew, and felt, and listened.

And wasn’t afraid
of the those two little words.

The ones I had to utter over and over.

Good Bye.
Good Bye.
Good Bye.

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