Irreconcilable Thoughts of the Day

Being stuck at home

started as a breath

of fresh air

when I felt tied

to the ocean floor.

We moved the furniture around

at least once a month—

at first.

The dogs never noticed,

but it kept us awake

when all we wanted to do all week

was sleep.

An endless succession of movie titles

I can’t remember.

Bargaining back rubs

for rom-coms.

New hobbies become old hobbies

as weeks flood into months.

The bin under the TV overflows

with full bottles of paint.

Half-painted canvases take up

what little space

we own.

After a few months,

the buzz downtown began to fade.

My best friend went home,

my manager moved in with her boyfriend,

my sister moved back in with dad.

I stayed still.

For a long time.

Permanently docked in a port city—

yearning to wander so far into the horizon

that I meet the sunrise, but

too scared to miss the familiar chiming

of the iPhone ringtone.

Or forget the cadence

of the automated greeting

from the jail back home.

The waiting drained me.

Waiting for the overly peppy recording

who always cuts me off

after exactly 15 minutes.

Waiting to cook until after our call,

so she can’t hear the sizzle

of sautéing garlic on cast iron—

or reminisce on meals

she may never eat again.

Waiting for 11 p.m. to finally come

so I can breathe again.

So I can mourn the only way

I know how.

Alone.

By then—it’s lights out there

and my mother will never know

I cried.