We are all made of corn. It's the cow that became the Big Mac we bite into. It's the Cheezy Curl between the sofa cushions. It's in the cushions, too. It's the fabric in our car, and the gas in our tank - it's the kibbles we feed the dog, the soda we sip, and the sheet paneling the walls of our house.
On a related note, I just came back from Iowa. Corn grows 360 degrees there.
And there, in the golden, syrupy light, I opened my arms to an Englishman. He was young and loveworn.
(Oh let's not pretend - we were neither as young as when we first met.)
We had planned this trip with the hope of reconnecting. It was our new chance - one year later - a secret thrill in a Bull Durham setting.
I opened my arms to him, but he stood still.
(Around the impossibly beautiful hillside, the harvested stalks rotted in place.)
I've seen enough of this world to know that in order to love, you must be open: hopeful, flexible - like a reed in the prairie wind. But he wasn't. My past transgressions clouded the future in his eyes, even though the sun was bright.
Without a word between us, I knew.
So he stood rigidly in that cornfield, forever chained to what might've been, thirty miles south of Des Moines.