Sister was granted full custody of her children. It is more accurate to say, that I have been granted full custody. The desire to be a mother remains far from me, but few get to decide what responsibilities they will shoulder.
Years go by, don’t they?
I once knew a boy with an antique typewriter. He would often let me borrow books. I would never read them, for fear that I would accidentally tear a page, or stain one with orange juice. Instead, I would write love letters, and place them in between chapters. Often, I wondered if he ever found them. Only recently, did I settle my doubts. Not only did he read my words, but he made his own book out of them.
The years still go by. A woman loses hope, though the visions are no less clear. Something is out there. Someone is out there. There is no name, there is no scent or trail to follow. Maybe, I have no idea of what I speak of, though I wish I did. It is all an imagined drama, a desire for a hero’s quest. Maybe there isn’t anything beyond blockbuster movies, soggy sandwiches, and cold coffee. Maybe, all one can do, is write poetry about bad sex, and find satisfaction in that. Because that is still more than most people do.