My first kiss had an identical twin sister. In a weird little twisted triangle, I actually started with a crush on the one who didn't kiss me, but ended pretty tangled up in the other one.

It ended with me settling in with her best friend.

Twisted little triangle, indeed.

From somewhere inside the fiery wreckage of that fiasco with the twins, I plucked some wisdom. My own little souvenirs from my visit to what certainly must have been adjacent to a circle of hell. Firstly, I learned that a dude named George was an asshole. He was pretty keyed up to throw down, but I laughed at him and turned my back. Turns out he had a thing for the girl who kissed me. Sorry, George. I never forced her to hands-free transfer to me her Mystery Mix Now & Later in the backseat.

Second, I learned that braces aren't awesome. Later, I learned that braces really suck for a different kind of kissing, if you catch what I'm throwin.

Third, I found that love finds us, we don't find it.

Love has found me a few other times throughout my life, and sometimes it was good. Other times, it was good for a while. On occasion, it was bad, but even before it went ugly, it was beautiful.

Those twins remind me that too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Two girls, identical in every physical way, but so very different. Two girls is probably one too many; life aint everything Penthouse Forum promised it would be.

One sister was kind and gentle, the other was all edges and angles.

When the edgy one kissed me, it cut.

Decades later, when I see her picture from time to time, I smile.

I hardly even notice the taste of a little blood.

I sold the books I used to take on our Saturday breakfast trips.

Do you remember them?

"How can you do that instead of see where we're going?" You'd ask that sometimes, when you were driving. Sometimes I'd answer with, "I know how to get home."

It isn't like we talked, anyway.

But if I was lucky, you'd even chuckle at my answer. Smiling was rare enough.

We'd go to a little diner, and I'd always pick a wooden-backed booth instead of one of the green vinyl mid-century modern ones. I remembered them as having higher backs, but I found a picture online of the place. 1951, it was dated. Hard to believe so many decades later we were being served by the same staff.

Every Saturday.

Unless we went to Hardee's. There, it was Moose cups and sausage biscuits.

I never really liked it when you chose Hardee's, because the little tiny town I used to live in only had that restaurant in it. Maybe two other local spots, but just the fast food was available for a Sunday meal. The rest of the city was rolled up tight when Jesus walked in across the lake for his weekly tithe.

I don't miss you like I thought I would, but I miss our breakfasts.

I miss the you that you used to be, goddammit.

I miss the us that we were, before age and anger and bitterness crept in around your edges. I miss the days before I got old enough to see the rust in the frame, the cracks in the leather. I miss the days when you cared enough to pretend to be happy, and maybe you were.

To a grandson, you were what a man was supposed to be.

I wish we'd been able to speak as men.

In the end, I wish we'd been able to speak at all.

I sold the books I used to take on our Saturday morning trips, not because they reminded me of you. Nothing so sentimental. I sold them because they were just decoration on a shelf, and I have new memories to put on display.

I don't need those mementos of our time together, because I see you every time I look in the mirror.

I've never cared much for chocolate cake.

It isn't that I have anything against it, not really. It's just not been one of those things I've ever loved. I'm probably turned off even more by the prospect of chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The combination is too much of a good thing for me.

A chocoholic I am not.

My mom used to take pride in hers, though. She made it all from scratch. No box mixes or tubs of icing were ever found in my house growing up. She could make anything with a little time and a cup of scratch, as the adage goes. At least, I think I heard that somewhere. It applied to mom's kitchen, anyway.

She used to have this sheetcake pan with a blue translucent lid. The pan itself was aluminum, but the lid struck me as super cool because of the particular shade of blue it was. When I was a kid, I'd look through it and the world took on a sci-fi hue. Once when I was probably six or seven, I stepped away from a partially eaten piece of that chocolate on chocolate cake, leaving my paper plate on the coffee table. I forget why I walked away, but when I got back, I found my dog with crumbs on his chin and a perfectly cleaned plate.

I laughed then, and I'm laughing now. He was a good boy, even if sometimes he'd steal from inattentive children. That dog was with me until well after I turned 16. He's the reason my mom never wanted another puppy; in her mind, there'd never be a boy as good as he.

She's probably right. I have a boy dog now and he's not as good as that first one. I've had some girl dogs, though, and one of them was better.

She died a couple of months ago, and recovery has been hard.

It seems silly, mourning like this. Mourning for a dog who was with me for 12 years, and now at the same time mourning for a mother who was with me my whole life.

I started saying goodbye to my last parent a long time ago, but I only had hours to say goodbye to my good girl. Her end was swift, hidden, sudden, and I can only hope for the same. My mother lived long enough to wither, and her passing was not kind.

Today sees me with intermittent sobs and a constant headache behind my eyes. Grief is like that, I suppose. Always waiting for idle hands.

My work is caught up and my hobbies are lackluster. Nothing on television holds my interest and I don't feel up to reading a new book.

So I sit here, thinking about desserts from yesteryear.

I never cared much for chocolate cake, but part of me wishes there was one waiting on me in an aluminum sheet pan with a blue lid.

My world could definitely use a different hue right now.

"Is it lonely?"

"Sometimes," he whispers through a toothy smile.

She studies him. He has the touch of gray and tip-toeing crow’s feet of a man in his early forties, but his energy spoke both of vibrant youth and ancient gravitas.

"Why not use your gaze?" Pointedly, she locks eyes with him.

"The more sand has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it."

"How very poetic. What's it mean in this instance?"

"I learned a century ago that asking has better long term potential than taking."

Eventually, she forgets what dawn looked like.

The last present I ever gave her was blue Roseville pottery. I purchased a lot of it at auction years ago. I knew it would make good gifts for her at the right times.

Eventually, she required a display cabinet.

At Christmas, I gave her the last pieces of pottery.

I heard from family at the funeral that she was proud of me. She often spoke of where I was working, what I was doing.

I thought I disappointed her.

I hope she genuinely enjoyed all those Roseville vases and bowls.

Next week I have to start boxing it up.

Your wings soar with me.

Stars light our cloudy path through

a sky underfoot

--1/1/25

It isn't a time capsule, it's a time bomb.

It exploded in slow motion decades ago, but the pieces and parts have been carefully preserved. Several zip-lock bags segregate different types, and they all fit inside a couple of shoe boxes. The bags and box wear no labels, but I know them well.

"What's that?" she asks, helping me cull items from my shed. Some stuff will be sold, some donated, and a surprising amount is trash. I've hauled everything in this outbuilding around for at least two moves, and the upcoming would be the third.

It's time to let things go.

I smile but don't really answer. "It goes in a 'keep' box," I say, pretending not to smell perfumed letters from one of the bags.

She pretends not to notice that I dodged her question.

It's okay. I still pretend to dodge shrapnel from the girl who wrote those letters decades ago, but I’m not very agile.

The folded pages of college-ruled wear the inky scrawl of a teen girl in love with a boy.

She grew up and so did I, but the time capsule of letters from a love that once was makes memory a minefield.

Are we all different versions of Job? I thought the wages of sin were death, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're the wagers and sin is how we make our wages, with death inevitable no matter how we live.

I've done a decent job with the Commandments, not because You said so, but because it's what decent folk do.

I’ve noticed the fastest way to get decent folk to behave indecently is invoke Your Name.

So tell me, am I Abraham or Isaac, because I'd rather be the one holding the knife if I have a choice.

The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.

I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.

This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.

I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.

Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.

"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."

I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.

"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"

"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.

He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.

"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.

"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."

The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.

"It's not that, mate."

She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.

I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.

He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"

He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.

"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."

I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.