​POETRY   
           

"That third day in March last year when I met you,"
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                                     Photo by  Weebly.com                                    

That Third Day of March Last Year *
by Elsa Fernandez
*  Published in Issue 2 of Vistas & Byways - Spring 2016

​​It might not have been an auspicious day,
that third day in March last year. Was it the
Year of the Rat? I do not remember.
I recall my anger. I had just begun a regimen,
embarking into a world of doctors and therapists
and psychiatrists who wanted to know what
I was thinking, feeling, trying to let me guide them
through the deep of my mind.
 
That third day in March last year when I met you,
you walked through the doors talking with an analyst.
I recall your face was stern. I was thinking that running away and never
returning was a pleasant option.
Why could I not let the years of excuses and emotional blindness continue.
I do not want to repeat every detail, confess my wild madness,
and live through the fear again, talking and confiding
to yet another person. Why couldn’t they let me be.
 
So I decided, let’s see what this very tall man with
brown eyes and stern lips would say to me. Would he be
inquisitive, hesitant to ask pointed questions, careful to be
non-committal but yet adequately probing. And on that third
day in March last year, you stopped at my chair in the lobby,
where I sucked at a bottle of Orangina, flipping one leg over
the arm of the seat, and challenged you with a rude belching
expletive.  My analyst laughed hesitantly. You offered your hand
to me and said your name was John and you wanted
to be my Lifestyle Coach and help me back to smiling again.
 
I did not know that on the third day of March last year, my hand was cold.
And yours was warm and I liked the sinews in your palm, and the
strength in your wrist and the softness of your handshake. And I felt a warm
wave for just a brief moment, a tremulous sensation in my throat as
I tried to answer but all that came out was, “Whatever!”  And you
laughed aloud, bent your head down to mine and whispered to me,
“You will be a problem, I can see it in your eyes, but let’s try
and have some fun along the way.”
 
It was that third day in March last year that opened the long narrow
corridor in my head. And I wanted to keep walking down it with you.

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​​Elsa Fernandez grew up in Asia. She has lived in San Francisco since 1970 and never gets tired of this lovely city. She has travelled the world and still gets excited flying back home and to finally land at SFO. Her family is scattered around the world—India, Australia, Dubai, England, Ireland, and Argentina. She is a political junkie and majored in Journalism and Political Science. She loves music and plays the piano quite well (one of her dreams was to own a piano bar in upcountry Maui . . . she would probably call it the Maui Moon!). Writing poetry is an emotional outlet for her.

Editor's Note:  Elsa passed away at age 75 in January 2024

Other works in this issue:
Poetry:  
​Number 27 to Taco Nirvana
​The Better-Than-Sex Blueberry Cake

​Nonfiction:
Back to Provence

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