In a Pickle

Springtime in Portland means pickling.
Some cucumbers call pickling The Big Show.
But all we want is that quiet country life.
Two green streaks–we wildly bounce from the table.
Red flannels flap, chasing us.
Picklers.
If we can just get past the city limits Kurt and I can be together.
Silver spokes.
Orange city bikes.
We roll and ricochet.
If we keep moving we’ll …






I can’t look.
Heartbroken.
Devastated.
Kurt’s crushed. And I am crushed.
The only thing left to do is run–
The farmer’s market!
Lavender.
I burrow amongst the stems. Camouflaged.
The buds covering my nose–a perfect mustache. Until
Splash!
Blueberry kombucha.
Safe.
But bubbles push me from hiding.
My green head bobs giving me away.
I’m too tired to resist.
Bitter vinegar. Fragrant dill.
Yellow brine engulfs me.
Scared, and alone.
But then,
Kurt. Smiling.
“I guess we’re going to The Big Show after all,” he says.
“But how did you? I can’t,” I’m sputtering. Speechless.
“I’ll tell you everything. We have time,” he says looking skyward.
A gray, metallic lid seals the jar and our love.
Together.
Forever.