| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
He plays with my hair and braids it just right. One on each side of my head, like those pictures of me, taken twenty years ago, with my arm wrapped around my dog's shoulders (I miss my dog. She died 13 years ago and sometimes I forget that's she dead. And then I feel bad all over again. And then I feel horrible for forgetting). I swoon as he makes the part, with brush in hand, and tight, firm fist. My life starts all over again. He is my family, a family I have chosen. I will wake up to him on Christmas morning. The apartment will be warm and dark and we will turn on the tree lights before opening the presents (And there will be plenty of presents this year). And we will have hours together before we head off to family dinner, where I will play Christmas Fairy to nieces and nephews in my long, green velvet gown with green velvet gloves. We will eat and drink and come home, where it will be warm and dark again. And I can't think of anything else but that day and how splendid it will be. If only it would snow, it would seem real to me now. But I'm afraid it might be enough to push me over, crack me open with my center oozing out. There is too much joy to be had with him. I can feel myself splitting open already. |
better places . . . . over under and through |