What Fits

After deep winter nights, the stars begin to reel for attention. A crisp moon slices its way into the bedroom, telling tall tales of skinny dipping in summer lakes and stolen kisses just beyond the bonfire light. In the backyard, color begins to sway. Bluebells spread around the daffodil's late arrival, and the scent of hyacinth overpowers the tang of fresh soil. It is still colder than expected for almost May. But at least, daffodils. And this way of saying, “hey...”

The yard progresses now. Weekends are spent spreading dirt and planting. Frost warnings slow it all down. We do the work of springtime, but for whom? The manicuring of our existence benefits selfish delights. I am aware of how much more this land could be and in this way, the work is sometimes tainted.

A clear night is shattered by the pulsing dawn. I wake with a sore throat and a fever. When I am sick, he holds me and it makes me feel like I never want to let him down. But I will. With no otherwise, I watch the bluest sky blaze throughout the day from my bedroom window. Cardinals, sparrows, and jays at play. The neighbor kids exchange their Sunday best for play clothes. Kyle works on the sprinklers. From my bed, the patience of a puzzle teaches me what fits. And what doesn't. Yet I want the whole picture – the picture surrounding the picture.

Before her gig, I saw the color scuffed off her combat boots. Dad taught me how to properly shine a shoe and I'm good at it. With each swipe of the buffing brush, I felt myself letting her go. I knelt over the boots in order to shine with the correct force. And even though there is no god to hear my prayer, I felt the orison leave my heart and exit my proud mouth. She moves out soon and with the weight of the day pressing down on my blankets, I wonder what kind of vastness can grow in its stead.