What We Want

To be a dreamer is to die young. A life is only as long as your laundry list of to do’s. Everything I want is strung up on the clothesline, dripping. The rough pavement on my shoulder blades, heels digging into the summer heat. Knees peering into the soft earth and the hum of my mother. Perennials return every year, she says. No matter how cold the winter. Together we watch as the bulbs peek their heads out of the dirt. Later, when her knees are aching and there are sobs from the bedroom door, I will make dinner and then sit, listening. My heart is one large bruise. Helplessness is blunt force trauma. I’ve had six concussions but I still remember my name, which is to say, we don’t always get what we want.