I think wistfully about what I will be like when I grow up.
Clean credit cards,
a clean sink that gleams, as if it has never glimpsed a dirty dish,
a son, settled into sleep (I am so convinced it is a boy),
while I write,
perched on the windowsill,
singing softly to my assorted indoor plants,
and the patient glow of the moon.
There is no landlord,
and I am the lady of a tidy home,
wearing neat, sensible clothes as I turn walks to nursery school into a wild adventure,
quite out of character for my new persona,
but the last little part that I will keep of who I was.
There is a shadow of a soulmate,
when I dream about it,
always in the corner of my eye,
or just out of reach,
I ask them who they are,
but there is always refusal,
so I reluctantly accept that sometimes,
you have to wait for the answers.
I spend my time,
in the current time, being stiff, distant and weird to suitors,
so I can be sure that they’ll stay,
if I get back to my old ways (which are technically my current ways),
but just like the lonely sea,
I am always left bereft,
I think I ought to try being more palatable,
but who really wants to just be tolerated?
My son has dark brown eyes, like mine,
and I have yet to tell him that the dinosaurs are extinct,
because I cannot bear to break his heart.
He has the smallest hands I have ever held,
but they are always cold,
like a ghost,
and I haunt the hospital,
pleading for peace of mind,
while a doctor (always a male) tuts, and says that ALL new mothers are hysterical.
I have never seen my boy as baby,
so it feels unfair to be labelled as new,
but I suppose it’s one of those things where you never stop learning,
so I lean into the label,
grateful that my child gazes up at me as if I am a God.