Milk and Honey

Cookies and Milk.


I had my friend Bill,   we rode our bikes

and played together.   He had his own

friends and so did I.



On an Autumn day,  after the leaves

had fallen,  new neighbors moved in.

I watched them unpack

and I noticed a girl,  about my age.


My mom and her’s became friends,

and this girl came along too.

We eyed each other skeptically,

and the mothers had for us,

cookies and milk.


From then on,  we became fast friends too,

and our cookies and milk, as well.

Every morning with our bacon and eggs,

were fresh cookies and milk.


And each day,  when we walked to school,

our arms about each other’s shoulders..

In grade school even, with smiles on our faces

we walked to school and teased each other.

At home,  whenever we appeared were the

milk and cookies,  of course..

After our explaining each day,

we went outside and played, until

our mothers implored us, to come in and eat.


Pretty soon,  our classmates teased,

She was ‘cookies’ and myself,  ‘Milk.’

But we were best friends and we WERE

Cookies and Milk.

Never dreaming that that our

love could grow deeper and deeper.


Then one morning, I noticed a change.

Her boyishness figure was full of curves.

Her haired smell nice and her hands

felt warmer.

And instead of arms around each other’s

shoulders,  we walked hand in hand,

still ‘Milk’ and ‘Cookies’,  never apart.


We added a caveat, to our names,

for honey and baby,  entered the fray.

But still,  we were,  and forever

would be,  ‘Milk and Cookies’.


And as we grew, our journeys

went to different, and secret places

to discuss and wax over each other.

Milk and honey and but still

Milk and Cookies.


I carried her books,  hand in hand,

and our texts,  everywhere, and I meant,


Milk and Cookies,  Milk and Cookies.

We went on our journeys,  walking with each other,

Milk and Cookies and Cookies and Milk.

Inseparable as  wind and the rain,

dark and the setting sun,

We still were of course,

Milk and honey to us,

Cookies and milk,  to all others.


Cookies real name was Cheryl

and my name does not matter,

as you will soon see.

Milk and Cookies?

It started to rain overnight.

The fog held itself close.


In the morning,  the rain had ended.

That morning,  it was different,

and the do0r bell, went unanswered.

When my friend caught up to me,

he trembled,  with tears in his eyes.

I am sorry dear friend, truly, truly sorry.


I remember ‘Cookies’ and so did our


Milk is all alone again,

and Cookies looking down.

but in my heart, they still.



Can we go back?

In a dream,  where are we?  Some imaginary land on a cliff or some quiet little town, in a place of bliss and solicitude?  And when  we awaken,  we are safe from fatal flaws.   Theoretical physics suggest alternative universes.   Looking from different angles,  suggests that we see things differently from different places.

But potential physics aside,  I wonder sometimes,  if these dreams are less esoteric than we think?   Let me tell you a story, that seems to encapsulate more than just randomness and fleeting imagination.  So here goes.

I had a girlfriend who was 16 and  I just turned 18.   I remember going to where she lived with her parents.  Her dad was a barber and had a small room on the front side of house, complete with a barber’s  temporal pole and the secular contradiction,  that this pole represents.   Complete with a menu, inside the business and 5 cent steaks and a complete meal for 15 cents.   Changes!

The house was replete with an upstairs bedroom,  a place I regarded with reverence.  While waiting for her one day,   I heard the song,  ‘Sundown’  by Gordon Lightfoot.  I wondered about her dressing (the hormone thing).  She looked like angel coming down the stairs,  her long hair flowing and like a muse, in her habitat

She was breathtakingly beautiful,  with a pretty dress, but at the same time,  an allstar highschool basketball player.   Kind of a tomboy.  She was enamored of my athletic prowess and me,  showing off and wanting the attention that that br0ught.   And I got it.   We hung out,  like statues in motion, riding a flying carpet,  delving into Christ and happy.   It was fun and more fun than the old hymns.

One Christmas,  we cuddled in the living room,  her parents in their bedroom and we were watching the Christmas log on WWOR in NYC. We caressed each other,  mixed with kisses and mistle toe.    We were largely quiet,  knowing her parents were not far off anyhow.   But that was a seminal moment in my life.

Later in the following year,   I signed up for the Air Force and things began to change.   We were okay until the Senior Prom and that went off pretty well and this time,  she looked better than any other ,  I  often was reminded of the song,   ‘We may never pass this way again’ and I began to feel a creeping solitude and like the  snow on the TV, a lacrymose curtain signaling an ultimate,  and unhappy ending.

Ultimately,  we parted,  as my first real love,  we could not sustain this love,  over such a long distance.   Bit by bit,  like colored leaves falling and the misty mornings,  she was no longer there.   I remember the song, ‘Sorry little boy in love’.    “And every tree that I passed by, seemed to whisper, sorry little boy in love”.  The parting was an ephermal end,  but there were little teases,  where I just missed, like the Mighty Casey striking out,  with a flourish.  So close and yet so far.

But the last page,  was different.   Lately, in my dreams,  she reappears.  Like a magic wand that was waved and the tragedy that seemed to get a reprieve.     One time,  I am riding a bike,  I think,  and I see her house in a requiem and her waving at me.   I was puzzled but moved past.

And last night,  intially she resented me then, as we were stuck in a large flood in a high building, and when we could go out,  her furtive glances suggested the acrimony and hope ,  that she seemed to harbor.   Mixed messages came,  and when I came up from behind,  asked her to give me a ride on her back,  she ended on my back and the warmth of her breath and the melting ice.  We were both young again,  her with her long hair and me with a love that was unrestrained hope, and a chance to fulfill destiny.

The implied reality is couched by a seeming resentment of the changes that have ocurred to her.   Her hair now short and her body somewhat frumpy.   I don’t see her as 0ld, or ugly,  frumpy or whatever.  Regardless,  there is a pining,  that will never subside,  like a one-way  high tide.

Her pulchritude has not diminished.  Her outward self-concept has crippled her, both in dream and in reality,  I am not sure of what that reality really is.    But I know,   under the antic rug,  lies a golden chalice or bronze ring.   I will never-the-less continue in my own reality and if this comes,  all the better.