In my roman à clef

In my roman à clef

In my roman à clef, I traveled Washington state
under an assumed name,
with lovers, on my own, and in the company of friends.
‘Twas a tale imbued with the sound of the Sound 
the smell of fish and chowder and rot.

In my roman a clef, the soles of my shoes
were smothered in smear, 
the insides dipped in beach. 
I dumped it all out at the campfire’s edge,
drank hot tomato soup from a can
and gazed at my filthy feet 
propped up on the wooden chair 
absorbing the heat and the coastal air.

In my roman à clef
In my sound of the Sound
I catalogued my memories of friends
departed, forgotten, mostly, just like he said. 
I shook my head and told him, “Never.” 
Yet here I am, thirty years older and I can’t quite recall
how to spell his last name or whether his eyes were blue or brown 

(They were brown; they were definitely brown. 
They were wise, unsettled, and profound.) 

He played an unwilling hero in my roman à clef.
His only portrait was taken in shadows,
without his permission, 
by a passing friend who didn’t know better. 
He only just managed to turn away, leaving me 
one lingering glimpse of his beautiful face. 
It’s the only photographic proof I have of his physical self. 
I keep it hidden away, and only I know where, 
and I think that is how he would have wished it.

All that painful discovery
of how hard love can hurt when it goes 
was only the start of years of winding stairs
and stories and situations taking me
lord only knew where and heaven only knew what 
was to become of me and all that sort of tale.

I was years from taking hold, years from taking heed,
I was years away from actually steering my own trip. 
I was still locked into a phase of life when my story told me 
and not the other way around.

That was the truth behind the veil in my roman à clef.
It may sound trite or precious, but it truly
broke to shards my young improbable faith
that love would be enough.
Truth is, it wasn’t. Not nearly.

So is that a novel with a key? A cautionary tale?
Or is it the story of an awakening,
a journey to some eventual joy? The great reveal of the truth at last? 
I don’t know. I suppose we’ll see.

Photo: Sunset at Grayland Beach State Park, Grayland, Washington.