Flowers On A Tree
II. I wonder when or how he will appear. In what form. Perhaps as a casual text: "How are you?" A conversation on the sidewalk. A run-in at the grocery store? No, it will be a private message. As always. "Just checking in on life and kids" which will lead to "By the way I still think of you." I roll my eyes. Oh, I know him. There is a pattern. There is a history from before kids. Before marriage. Over a decade of inaction and action followed by waves of silence. Then action again. We have known each other for over twenty years. Half of our life spiders out in front of me as I stare at my glacially shrinking mummy tummy in the mirror. I cover myself in a nursing bra and a pretty-but-forgiving summer dress. It twirls when I spin around and is covered with red peonies on a black landscape. I remember his hands. Large and familiar, his long fingers splayed out. I remember every knuckle; every finger. I can feel his palms on me. I know the pads of his thumbs.