I Imagine You
I imagine you at night in a white adobe house, cool with thick walls, green shingles and
shutters, a brick courtyard lit by Japanese lanterns. It sits in the middle of an old olive
plantation at the end of a long dirt drive lined with date palms; the shutters of our upstairs
room are open to the breeze. You’re wearing a soft, white cotton robe with a narrow tie at the
waist. The room is lit by candles, and by light washing in from the lanterns. The wind is
picking up; we can smell dust and rain. We close the shutters and go with candlelight.
We’re hiking together out in the redwoods; I’ve been walking behind you. You’re wearing
shorts, hiking boots, and an old shirt of mine, tied up so your stomach can cool off. Your
ponytail is sticking out through the gap in the back of your baseball cap. We’ll be at the
waterfall soon. You’re stopping to have a drink.
I imagine walking with you in New York City after a show. It’s fall, so you’re wearing a
peacoat, boots and a beanie, all in black and you look totally badass. We are on our way to
our favorite tea house; it’s dark and quiet even when it’s busy because the tables are in
nooks.
We’re in an old barn with rain beating on the roof. There are old bridles and saddles and other
tack on the walls, but no horses anymore (the ones in the next pasture to ours are friendly).
The rain stops and cicadas start buzzing. It’s a very warm afternoon.
We’re on our way to the ballet, driving in a quiet car with comfy leather seats. You are in a
sheath dress the color of dark chocolate, with your hair up in a French twist. You are lying
back in your seat relaxing because it’s been a hard day, but we’re starting a long vacation
tomorrow.
I imagine you sleeping in a big, soft bed with a beautiful quilt. The bed is a tall one with steps
to get in. Moonlight is coming through a gap in the curtains, making shadows that move when
the wind blows the trees. I don’t wake you; I like watching you sleep.
I see you coming through the screen door with the mail wearing cut-offs and flip-flops. You
smile and hand me a letter you wrote and mailed to me last week when you were away.
I imagine you under oak trees, walking through golden grass. I’m carrying a blanket and a
basket with some food you’ve made for us. There’s no one around for miles.
We’re walking down a sidewalk holding hands. I don’t know where we are;
it doesn’t matter.
I love you.
John Wiley started as a ballet dancer and began writing poetry when his knees finally gave up for good. His work has been published in Terror House Magazine, Grand Little Things and Sparks of Calliope among other publications. He lives in a small beach town on the central coast of California and works at the desk in his wife’s audiology practice doing office stuff.
