She stands - smiling,
perfect.
She arranges the flowers he brought her
places them-
just so
in the crystal vase in the foyer,
a gift-
seen,
registered,
bought, and wrapped
now on permanent display
in the immaculate
picture-perfect home.
With a cake in the oven
she runs back to the world she knew
years ago
when she was another one of many
thinking,
raising hands
raising questions
all too soon raising children
who run in precisely at 3:15 every afternoon
and beg to lick the batter bowl.
So the book goes back into hiding
until tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.
Probably not thinking outside the box or reading between the lines on this one but, I see the book as not a metaphor but a tangable item. She was either an aspiring writer or artist in her younger days, now riddled with Procrastination tendencies to re-kindle her love of art and/or writing. She reminds me a bit of my mother as well, what were her dreams and passions before having children? Where is my skecthbook these days as well?
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