I don’t know why,
but 32 has always been my favorite number.
Lucky. How fortunate I felt that day
as the stovetop warmed the scent of butter through the kitchen
mimosas passed around—
Sunday couldn’t have gotten any better.
We pushed together stools and ottomans
in my make-shift living room,
Leaning against each other for support,
bumping elbows to cut through a blueberry pancake.
It was so real, so full,
and I had never realized what it all really meant
before that bubble-headed blurry afternoon.
The sun sets,
a yellow haze slips through the window.
The champagne fizz in my brain,
small bubbles that lull me into a sleepy state.
The dog rests on my chest,
his belly upward in nap position.
The radio echoes through the empty house
as the weight of my eyelids takes over.
It’s when I realize how good it all is.