October
Dillon put his arms around Evie. She planted a soft kiss on his lips. “I’m worried about you and this dinner.” She scooted as close to him as she could get.
“Your concern is appreciated.” She set up. Dillon was lounging on the pillows. She rested her hands on his stomach, “I’m not good at saying ‘love stuff’. I’m more of a show-er. When you leave in the mornin’ and I say, ‘go save lives lawman. First and foremost being your own’, I pray you know that I’m saying I love you.” She cringed that the words as they left her mouth. They sounded weak. Stupid. Less than words to her ears.
He caressed her cheek, raising her chin slightly, “we can learn together.”
Tears streamed down her face, “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“I have no other word for me.”
“Come back here.” He guided her head to his shoulder. When she was settled, he kissed her on the forehead. “When you don’t have, or can’t say the words, feel free to show me.”
Evie hadn’t been able to go back to church. Pastor Sam hadn’t tried to reach back out to her. She had been watching the services through a local t.v. station and he looked sadder than usual. The sermon this Sunday was about domestic violence leading up to dinner in the park.
Dillon had gone to work. Leaving her to second guess her decision to speak. Some experts thought that 5 years was the magic number of years to heal. Before that, the experience was too new. And you were in no shape to help other victims. While others argued, you never got over the trauma.
She suspected more people would be at this dinner than if it was at someone’s house. Povol (with good reason) didn’t want it at the shelter. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed. ‘Let me do the right thing. Say the right words.’
Poetry & More 
one was enough
lift and pull
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