Jessica
Postcard from Now
Now I have the house to myself. You left
for work this morning. Now, I have time
to finish my laundry, load the dishwasher,
and write. Now I remember the pleasure
of folding warm clothes: tucking socks together,
embracing warm towels, emptying a basket. Now,
the house is quiet, except for the clatter
of clothes in the dryer, the click of my fingers
on the keys. I have been waiting for now
all morning, all week. I have wasted now
up until now, sleeping and working, eating
and dreaming. I am now trying to only
eat my watermelon and salt, a habit
I inherited from my father. I am trying not
to remember my childhood picnics, sugar
dripping down my chin and into the grass. Now,
I am only trying to taste the watermelon,
its white pips, the salt. I say to myself: sweet,
salt, sweet, salt, as if repeating this mantra
will remind me of what I am doing. I am too
easily distracted now, not only by the taste
of my food, but my expectation of its taste
before I eat and the memory of my taste when I finish.
Now, is too easy and too difficult. Now is slipping
away from me now, into the new now of emptying
the next load of laundry and waiting for your return.
