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.