Up in the Air

You were last seen falling off the face of the planet. The crocuses had just started to bloom.
My therapist says I have trouble stringing together one moment to the next, that my thoughts are like a dandelion caught in a hurricane. I’m not sure why it matters since dandelions are weeds anyway.
More accurately, I would consider myself a quilt coming apart at the seams. Each square, a remnant of things come to pass—things I can never be again. Your patch was handkerchief of paisley blue, and one afternoon it unraveled from the clothesline.
You haven’t been seen since.
I should’ve noticed the threads starting to fray. I could’ve answered your last question differently.
“Do you want anything?” “I can’t think of anything.”
Even though you gave up smoking three days before you left, I left your ashtray on the kitchen table. I’m thinking about starting, myself. My therapist is thinking about putting me on a new medication.
I’ve pulled up the crocuses. They made it through the winter, but they’ll never survive without you.
The dandelions, however, are thicker than ever.

Aubrie Cox went to university to write a novel and left writing haiku. A Midwest native and 2013 graduate of the Ball State University creative writing MA program, she is currently part of the editorial team for the online journal A Hundred Gourds.