Barbara and Richard Crooker
Coup
de Foudre, or Love at First Sight
By Barbara Crooke
Richard and I met at a party almost fifty years ago. We were both newly single, coming out of bad marriages, and living in Corning, NY, where it was difficult for singles to meet. A mutual friend decided to try and solve this by throwing a party where every single friend invited several more single friends.
I remember that there was dancing. And it really was love at first sight.
It only got better and better over the years. We were married in Corning on July 26, 1975.
Richard died on April 20, 2021 after suffering an aortic dissection, an 11 hour surgery, then months of hospitals and rehabs. It was during Covid, and I wasn’t allowed to see him, so it was beyond difficult.
These poems are from a currently circulating manuscript called Absence.
I remember that there was dancing. And it really was love at first sight.
It only got better and better over the years. We were married in Corning on July 26, 1975.
Richard died on April 20, 2021 after suffering an aortic dissection, an 11 hour surgery, then months of hospitals and rehabs. It was during Covid, and I wasn’t allowed to see him, so it was beyond difficult.
These poems are from a currently circulating manuscript called Absence.
COUP DE FOUDRE
A crowded party, somebody’s living
room, the air between us electric and crackling.
You’d come with someone else; I was given
the rush by a more handsome guy.
But somehow, we knew we were
combustible material.
Later, there were trips to France, where
even the air was drenched with love
and longing. Were we sensitive
to what was going on around us?
I’m not sure, but eyes meeting over cups
of café noir was nothing but foreplay.
I can’t imagine being in Paris and not being
in love. I can’t imagine ever going there again.
You were the paddle in the stern, steering
the canoe. A glass of cold water in August’s
blast furnace. A swirl of red wine in front
of the fire. Lilacs in spring, the drunken air.
And now: dregs, ashes, absence.
The leftover sparks, cinders that singe
the edges of my hair.
published in Talking River
room, the air between us electric and crackling.
You’d come with someone else; I was given
the rush by a more handsome guy.
But somehow, we knew we were
combustible material.
Later, there were trips to France, where
even the air was drenched with love
and longing. Were we sensitive
to what was going on around us?
I’m not sure, but eyes meeting over cups
of café noir was nothing but foreplay.
I can’t imagine being in Paris and not being
in love. I can’t imagine ever going there again.
You were the paddle in the stern, steering
the canoe. A glass of cold water in August’s
blast furnace. A swirl of red wine in front
of the fire. Lilacs in spring, the drunken air.
And now: dregs, ashes, absence.
The leftover sparks, cinders that singe
the edges of my hair.
published in Talking River
THE RED THREAD
An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break.Chinese Proverb
I felt it, even when you were in the ICU, then the vent-trach unit,
then other hospitals and rehabs, that there was an invisible cord
binding us over the miles of icy roads, the units closed to visitors
because of the virus. The thread was stretched thin, almost to breaking.
Now death has tangled it past unraveling. A thicket of knots, a path
that’s impossible to follow, an impenetrable maze of thorns. But
my finger, like a phantom limb, still feels the tug, the tension.
Someday, I will follow the pull, and let it lead me back to you.
published in Persimmon Tree
then other hospitals and rehabs, that there was an invisible cord
binding us over the miles of icy roads, the units closed to visitors
because of the virus. The thread was stretched thin, almost to breaking.
Now death has tangled it past unraveling. A thicket of knots, a path
that’s impossible to follow, an impenetrable maze of thorns. But
my finger, like a phantom limb, still feels the tug, the tension.
Someday, I will follow the pull, and let it lead me back to you.
published in Persimmon Tree
WALKER
CANYON
2019 poppy super bloom
It’s three pm, and shadows are lengthening.
We are called to contemplate that death
and impermanence are part of life.
My heart objects. I want you back, in your lovely
flawed and fragile human body. More years
together in our quiet house, nights wrapped
in flannel sheets. Once, we were in California
when the bare hills exploded in poppies,
a rippling ocean of orange. Behind them,
a theatrical blue sky, untroubled by clouds.
Painted Lady butterflies floated across the trail
as if magnetized, blown by the breeze
in little flurries. I wanted time to stop there.
People were picnicking in the blossoms, setting up
easels, clicking their cameras. You took a short video
I just found on my phone. In it, I can hear your voice
again (oh, how I miss it), and the hot wind and the crunch
of boots on the pebble path. Someone said It just goes on
forever, doesn’t it? and I wish it did: the blue day,
the fluttering petals, the butterfly wings, you and me,
the brush of our hands, all of this impermanent,
all of this gone.
published in Presence
We are called to contemplate that death
and impermanence are part of life.
My heart objects. I want you back, in your lovely
flawed and fragile human body. More years
together in our quiet house, nights wrapped
in flannel sheets. Once, we were in California
when the bare hills exploded in poppies,
a rippling ocean of orange. Behind them,
a theatrical blue sky, untroubled by clouds.
Painted Lady butterflies floated across the trail
as if magnetized, blown by the breeze
in little flurries. I wanted time to stop there.
People were picnicking in the blossoms, setting up
easels, clicking their cameras. You took a short video
I just found on my phone. In it, I can hear your voice
again (oh, how I miss it), and the hot wind and the crunch
of boots on the pebble path. Someone said It just goes on
forever, doesn’t it? and I wish it did: the blue day,
the fluttering petals, the butterfly wings, you and me,
the brush of our hands, all of this impermanent,
all of this gone.
published in Presence
COUPLE
D’AMOUREUX DANS UN PETIT CAFÉ, QUARTIER ITALIE
Brassai,
gelatin silver print, 1932
This could have been us, maybe seventy years later,
on one of our trips to the City of Light. First you’d
wrestle with the top brass over the R&D budget
while I shopped and went to museums; then,
when the business stress was over, it was just
the two of us, no worries about my mother,
our son with autism, just us, a small brasserie,
the May air, the blossoming trees. Even the smoke
from nearby Gitanes, part of the ambiance. I loved
the way coffee in France came avec son chocolat,
“with his chocolate,” that sense of belonging.
The couple in this photograph are just about
to kiss. We never see the next moment, when
the baiser happens. Or maybe it doesn’t—maybe
it’s a contrivance, a pose for the camera’s eye.
It doesn’t matter now. But if it had been us,
oh, yes, we always followed through.
published in The MacGuffin
on one of our trips to the City of Light. First you’d
wrestle with the top brass over the R&D budget
while I shopped and went to museums; then,
when the business stress was over, it was just
the two of us, no worries about my mother,
our son with autism, just us, a small brasserie,
the May air, the blossoming trees. Even the smoke
from nearby Gitanes, part of the ambiance. I loved
the way coffee in France came avec son chocolat,
“with his chocolate,” that sense of belonging.
The couple in this photograph are just about
to kiss. We never see the next moment, when
the baiser happens. Or maybe it doesn’t—maybe
it’s a contrivance, a pose for the camera’s eye.
It doesn’t matter now. But if it had been us,
oh, yes, we always followed through.
published in The MacGuffin
