March 12th, 1959
When what we took for granted becomes a fantasy.
“Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘It might have been.’”
― Kurt Vonnegut (Thanks Jess Thoms for the quote).
I wake up to the sun streaming through lace curtains, a warm ball of fur, my cat Emma, scrunched in my armpit. The soothing, soft rumble of your inhale fills the space next to me. I tip toe into the kitchen to make breakfast while you sleep—coffee and a heaping bowl of cereal, half bran flakes, half granola, for you; a green smoothie and lox frittata for me—while you sleep. We eat together, the windows cracked open, it’s surprisingly warm for mid-March. Birds chirp from bare branches freckled with buds eager to bloom.
After three tedious cigarettes paired with three cups of re-heated latte, we venture out into the early afternoon. Your birthday falls too early for the real flowers of Spring, so I take you to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. I’m bored within ten minut…