Claire Coenen
Claire Haynsworth Coenen, LMSW, is a writer and social worker living in Nashville, TN. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in The Nashville Scene, The Write Launch, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Cathexis Press, Soul-Lit, and Light of Consciousness Magazine. Claire also enjoys teaching yoga and sharing the practice of SoulCollage®.
When We Walk
For Davey
When we walk, the world unfurls in pinks, greens, and blues. You and I and the sky and our poodle, named Lion, wander far from the gray apartment, free from the glare of the screen.
Bad news turns to birdsong in the great beyond of the neighborhood where kids made canvas out of concrete. We walk across a rainbow to the pot of gold, which Lion stops to sniff. The yellow dust of chalk smudges his nose. I feel sun near my throat as we laugh.
When the sidewalk ends, we stroll up 44th toward the park, past the house that looks like a spaceship, up to the crosswalk I call auspicious, where we fell in love again last March.
You grab my hand, as an SUV zooms past then we dash to the other side. I step in a pile of bronze pollen. You start to sneeze. I squeeze your hand, and you lead us down a street I’ve never seen before. It’s a haven of dogwoods, trees that remind me of the secret garden, my grandmother, Easter.
You sneeze again. My stomach growls. Lion relieves himself in the shade of white blossoms. Our shadows look longer now. Returning home, we talk logistics— your virtual meeting Tuesday, my doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Plodding up the final hill, you point out a pink cloud shaped like a sailboat.
Back inside, the AC buzzes. We check our phones and heat up dinner. Lion barks at the microwave. I go to bed early and try to pray but my mind spins back to last night’s dream, alligators chasing me as I run through a maze. I toss and turn in bed, until I sense, with eyes closed, the open door, a vertical line of light expanding. You walk in the room, curl up beside me. You find my hand.
Bad news turns to birdsong in the great beyond of the neighborhood where kids made canvas out of concrete. We walk across a rainbow to the pot of gold, which Lion stops to sniff. The yellow dust of chalk smudges his nose. I feel sun near my throat as we laugh.
When the sidewalk ends, we stroll up 44th toward the park, past the house that looks like a spaceship, up to the crosswalk I call auspicious, where we fell in love again last March.
You grab my hand, as an SUV zooms past then we dash to the other side. I step in a pile of bronze pollen. You start to sneeze. I squeeze your hand, and you lead us down a street I’ve never seen before. It’s a haven of dogwoods, trees that remind me of the secret garden, my grandmother, Easter.
You sneeze again. My stomach growls. Lion relieves himself in the shade of white blossoms. Our shadows look longer now. Returning home, we talk logistics— your virtual meeting Tuesday, my doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Plodding up the final hill, you point out a pink cloud shaped like a sailboat.
Back inside, the AC buzzes. We check our phones and heat up dinner. Lion barks at the microwave. I go to bed early and try to pray but my mind spins back to last night’s dream, alligators chasing me as I run through a maze. I toss and turn in bed, until I sense, with eyes closed, the open door, a vertical line of light expanding. You walk in the room, curl up beside me. You find my hand.
