Squash Blossom

In the morning, the ground squished
underfoot—rain-soaked from a week of storms.
We greeted a yellow squash blossom—
a quiet lighthouse in the damp field,
guiding us home after our souls had howled in the dark,
promising there would be light again.

We played like kids with walkie-talkies:
“Purple Pumpkin to Mellow Yellow…
I love you.”
Pause.
“Mellow Yellow to Purple Pumpkin—10-4, me too.”

That night, Chinese takeout.
You: General Tso’s, ten bucks flat.
Me: stumbling over the menu,
eyes on the Seafood Combination—fifteen.
Five dollars felt like too much to ask—
so I looked down and muttered,
“Same as you.”

But you, all squash blossom and truth,
called me out.
“Bullshit,” you said.
“You’ll have the Seafood Combination.”

I try to play small,
but you don’t let me.
That’s how you love—
with open hands, pulling me up
from where I’ve hidden myself,
reminding me there’s room at your table
for everything I am.