feather, candle, and pine cone (from Karen)
The cool humidity sits on my shoulders like a shawl
this morning. I'm in my nightie on the porch
hoping no one can see me like this. I need
my bathrobe but forgot to get it before leaving
the bedroom and there is no way I'm going back
in there; I want my husband to sleep longer
so I can enjoy these peaceful moments alone.
And, as I write this, guess who pokes his head
out the door. So much for solitude. Do you
choose a word every year to keep you grounded
and focused? Last year I chose "write" and I made
it official by writing it out in the sand using a feather.
And, I did write so that was good. This year's word
is more personal. It's a tiny word that glows like
a candle flame only I can see. It's the important
pronoun "me." Not wife, not us, not him for sure.
He just poured himself a glass of V8 and has joined
me on the porch. He's had his shower and is walking
around with just a towel wrapped around his waist.
He's making small talk I'm trying to ignore. He asks
me to check the weather on my phone so he'll know
how to dress, his voice as gravelly as a pine cone
scratching my ears and face and eyes and my me
is getting smaller and smaller, a pearl closed up
in an oyster shell. He asks if I'd like a glass of juice,
delivers it, then goes back inside. And my selfish
little word begins to hum, again. It's a patient thing,
braiding its two letters into the complexities of marriage.
He's back out, now, announcing the coffee is on.
He's dressed, too, in shorts and a tank top. In and out.
In and out. Him time. Me time. After breakfast I'll help
him with a repair job then he wants to fly to Sebring
to take me for lunch. Us time. Then, tomorrow morning
I'll slip out of bed and quietly make my way back out here
to sit and write and be by myself, again, and that oyster
shell will be wide open and the two letters capitalized.
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