Four Weeks Missing
I will dance to the Beatles on the radio.
I will eat an apple, the skin removed in one single curl, like my father taught me.
I will wear comfortable slippers, stretch my toes out inside them.
I will browse the aisles at the grocery store, leave with only a bunch of grapes, a copy of Vogue and a bottle of cold champagne.
I will pet a dog.
I will take a vacation.
I will swim in the ocean, submerge my head, blow bubbles under the water, splutter from the salt.
I will smell a baby’s head.
I will brush my hair in front of the mirror.
I will bake a cake, run my fingers around the bottom of the bowl, lick off the frosting.
I will wear fresh underwear.
I will move my body freely, feel the sun on my face.
I will wash the smell of you from my clothes, my skin.
I will breathe fresh air again.