Ahhhhh, but the grass is always greener.
We are always peeking over the hedge.
Or, if you’re like me,
finding a way in for tea, or a stay, and then staring
at the curtains and the way they touch one another and
what kind of house they keep.
And then there’s me. I arrive alone.
Ease in my steps so far from my home and
seemingly not adrift at all. At ease.
I hear the crest in her voice when she says
what she’s been thinking from afar:
She’s not the first one, to confuse me with her awe.
They say ”bohemian” or “free spirit.” And again,
“How do you do this?”
And I want to respond: But any one can!
I want to respond: I just got on a plane?
But the truth is,
I learned from running.
I used to live from one going to the next
because it was the only way I felt whole
The only chance I had
to hear myself. To like myself. To meet myself.
My hands always felt most at home on the steering wheel
while I crested smoky mountains
and nothing ever made me feel so alive as a view out the window
and being alone in my movement
in charge… of my movement.
But I see here many rooms, and kids and truthfully,
it’s not easy taking him places where everyone is a couple.
The aquarium kills me just a little,
and the settling in alone these days,
kills me just a little
And as I look around and see the family
and the curtains, and the morning rush I, of course,
This life looks cozy, with its embroidered towels
and lingering embraces.
I held the little one last night
when a bad dream woke her.
Dark night and quiet house,
she curled into my neck
and I was grateful.
But when she cried “daaadddy”
the word killed me just a little.
So I go. And be. Alone. For now.
And it will sting a little, when there’s no one there to greet the sunrise with me in the morning
No one to plan hold the map, my hand or my coffee.
But also, no one will be keeping me from dancing
or taking the backroads
No one will be taunting my darkness
And NO ONE will dull my colors.
As always, when I travel, I have questions:
Who am I? What can’t I handle?
Will I ever be compatible…
If he’s out there…
Will there be a lawn, some grass to water and…
Must we live in the suburbs?
Will there be another one, to call Daddy in the dark?
Is there a man who can allow me to be,
like Jewel says, a blonde flame, a hurricane
one who spins out
but without the wreckage inherent in a storm?
Can the grass handle my drought if I pour when I’m home?
Can the lawn grow unruly if it means we’re busy living?