On Saturdays
I stood at Mt. Claire,
crimson sky colliding seasons,
waiting by the rail
for those who might not return.
Shadows dimmed,
air thinned—
I shouldn’t have been there—
but I came for someone
like myself.
People jumped,
not for thrills
but as a cry for help.
I almost counted myself
among them—
the coward of hopelessness
stalked me for years,
dancing in acid rain.
By the guardrail at Canyon View
I waited, hoping no one would come,
but ready if they did.
I reached for my breast pocket,
lit a slender stick,
simmering between my fingers.
I sucked in broken prayers,
blew smoke rings
through a facade.
I watched the river ripple,
pines waved in moonlight,
evergreen stacks
glimmered through shadows.
Mountain—
white-tipped,
so close, so far.
Cars swooshed by,
beams swept dust,
engines hummed,
music shook windows,
lives carried on,
faces settled into joy.
I learned honesty
made me feel alive—
had to help others see
the joy we manufacture
was still joy.
A streetlight flickered on.
By day, people fed quarters
to telescopes,
scanned mountain ridges,
peering at copper coats
burnished by brush,
deer stepping into clearing.
Its large, liquid eyes,
wide with a primal alertness,
scanned the surroundings,
taking in the serene symphony
of rustling leaves
and the distant chatter
of unseen birds.
I finished my smoke,
ready to call it a night—
but fate intervened.
A one-eyed Acura glided in,
Mariah Carey blaring,
her tears catching the dash lights.
She parked, sobbing
into her steering wheel.
I tapped the glass.
“Ma’am, can I help you?”
“Got a cigarette?”
I reached for my pocket,
lit one, passed it over.
She drew in, smoke curling
with frustration.
“Thanks,” she said, flicking ash.
“It’s nothing.”
I rested my hands on my hips.
“I’ve been there before.”
“Been where?”
She arched a brow,
flicking ash.
I held her gaze.
“What’s your name?”
“Ellie,” she said,
moving damp red strands
from her face.
“I’m Jordan.”
I grabbed her hand.
“I wasn’t going to—“
“Didn’t say you were.”
I held up my hands, surrendering judgment.
“I’ve been here, too,” I said.
She dropped her head.
“It crossed my mind.”
“You’re worth more than
your problems,” I said.
“I’ve got plenty of problems.”
A tear crept into her voice.
Ellie looked me over,
met my brown eyes.
“You’re cute.” She tossed the butt.
“Found Out About You” played
on her radio.
I laughed.
“Remember this song?”
“You, too?” Ellie’s eyes widened.
“I dated guys who blasted screamo.”
“I see why you’re here.”
Ellie eased into the end of blaming herself
for all wrong. “Maybe,” she said.
Tears threatened.
“I love your skirt,” I said.
“Really?” Her chin dipped.
“My ex thought I looked cheap.”
“What do exes know?” I said.
She nodded, lips pressed.
“1979” played—
our eyes caught our lips lip synching.
I sang.
“Good voice.” She clapped.
She sang.
“Adorable,” I said.
“My boobs or my voice?” She laughed.
I peeled my eyes.
“I wasn’t—”
“They big enough?” She cupped them.
“Great voice,” I said.
“And—”
“Perfect tits.”
She swallowed hard.
“Thank—”
“My pleasure.”
“Come here often?” Ellie said,
hugging herself, goosebumps rising.
“Is that a pickup line?” I asked,
offering her my coat.
She slipped it on,
while I shivered in my T-shirt,
probing her thoughts.
“Why are you so nice
to someone you don’t even know?” Ellie said.
“Are you trying to bring me to Jesus.”
“I’m trying to save myself.”
I didn’t brush away the tears.
“You’re doing a good job,” Ellie said.
“I’m trying.”
Ellie offered me a tissue.
I opened up to her.
“I won’t let you go,” Ellie said, “not again.”
“Again?” I said. “I don’t know you.”
“Something tells me you’re everything I’ve ever needed,” Ellie said.
“I had friends I thought would stay.”
“Thank you for saving me,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.
“And thank you for loving me,” Ellie said.
I stepped back. “What?”
“Your sister…” Ellie paused.
I clasped my hands above my head.
“Ellie Johnson?”
“I dyed my hair.”
She wrapped a strand around her finger.
“Like it?”
“I forgot all about you,” I said.
“We graduated twenty-five years ago.”
“And you still love me.”
Ellie’s alluring gaze told no lies.
“You talked in your sleep. Your sister recorded you.”
Ellie fished out her phone,
unlocked it, scrolled—
found the voice note, pressed play.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I said.
“I could have been talking about another Ellie.”
She paused, scrolled, played another—
my voice, her full name.
Ellie looked up, twisting a strand of hair.
“You were saying?”
I sighed.
“It’s true.
The thought of you was my antidote to depression.”
“Fewer pills, more of you—prescribed,” she said.
We kissed
and stayed alive together
for life.
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