My kitchen sink has been clogged for days,
maybe a utensil fell down the garbage disposal,
it’s not working either. The Drano didn’t work
but the fumes were dangerous I inhaled and
the crusty dishes are piling up while I used my
last clean fork to eat take-out brought home from
a job going nowhere fast… While waiting for the
plumber to come that I haven’t called yet. These are
the days I speak of most.
It’s spring: the skies are brilliantly deep blue as the
rain pours in the open windows because the heat is
still on and it won’t cool down, the thermostat must
be stuck again. For weeks now when I carry the
groceries in my bags break leaving the contents all
over my driveway, I should have double bagged but
forgot again. I’ve been thinking: This is what the
living do. As I hurry along every morning across the
driveway to get my coffee at my parent’s cabin spilling
it on the way back over to my room on my wrist and
sleeve because I was barefoot and the rocks hurt my feet.
I think again, and then again when she told me of her
journey to buy a hairbrush. This is it. Parking, slamming
the truck door shut in the rain as she rushed in and
bought more than a hairbrush. What she called…
a yearning she has.It never made sense to me.
“What, did you finally give up?,” she said.
We want the summer to come, the winter to pass just
to be here again. We want whoever to call or not to call,
a letter in the mail, a kiss, something that shows we exist.
We want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking… I catch a glimpse of
myself in the window glass of my parent’s cabin and I am
gripped by a cherishing so deeply for my own blowing hair
in a gust, raindrops upon my nose and dirty feet from the
puddles that I am speechless. I am living, I then remember
her. I am not giving up.
Photography by Viola Loreti