Christine Shook

Old Friends

I run into her on the corner of seventy-second street.  It’s Chris I remind her.  Recognition spreads over her face.  Older, she no longer wears sequined t-shirts or faded jeans.  Her hair is dyed its original auburn and clipped at the nape of her neck.  All that time lounging in each other’s arms.  I almost suggest coffee, but it’s too late.  Too much time has lapsed and our lives are filled with other distractions.

I leave her and amble into the park.  In a clearing, father and son play catch with a tennis ball.  Committed to the rhythm of slap and throw, they avoid strangers.  Still, I stand and watch, anonymous like the oak that hovers in mist and rain.  I forget past loves and the spangled lights of new storefronts, windows filled with ripped jeans, and pink heeled flip flops.

The rain comes
washing away 
her footprint
underneath my feet
the day she left

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About the Author

Christine Shook lives in New York City and has been writing tanka for over 20 years. She studied with Clark Strand, author of Seeds from a Birch Tree. Her tanka appeared in Ribbons and tanka prose in Haibun Today.