Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.

Some things believable like the smell of greasy
grass cuttings, of motor
cars in a straight line. We were one now in the noises of papers rustling
and a chance that something could happen. In the distance
the moon reached its zenith, a scientific method of learning to care.

We watched movies as a family last night (Rev and Trinity included). Little Mermaid and Peter Pan flashed across the screen in little colorful motions, a wave of a wand, a stroke of lightning from the trident. I sat with Oliver in my lap, thinking about my husband. Every now and again Harry would reach over and run his hand through my hair, or look at me strangely. He patted my arm more than once. Rev laughed along with the children and only occasionally lifted his eyebrows at me as if to say, Really?

My father sent me a card once. I still have it in a desk drawer in a room the children have deemed the "magic room." It is really the library and the guest room in one: a place where Harry's medical journals and my classical novels and volumes of literary critics can relate in harmony, and where an old wooden bed hides behind shelves. The "magic room" is where the children go when they are upset and it calms them down. It is the only room in the house where one can be alone with their thoughts, where one feels oddly, satisfactorily alone. Boxes of old pictures and heirlooms are underneath a rickety stained table, and stacked in the corners of the room. An old desk is full of broken pens, random batteries, bills, dental floss, birthday reminders, and my father's card. It says, "Cheers, Dad." And on the front is a vine of ivy with a small, ridiculous poem about being a wonderful daughter.

After the children were crashed in their appropriate rooms, Harry and I had a long discussion about our marriage. I am in love with only you, he said. I'll've nothing to do with anything that will make this'nt last. I smiled at him because I loved him so much. What do you think? I asked. And he answered, You need this because you're stuck. But tell me it's not me you feel "stuck" with. I convinced him otherwise.

I went to visit "Edward" today. When he saw me at his door, he smiled widely and let me in. And Sontag has been plaguing you, has it? he asked. He came to me, contoured my cheek with his hand and brought his mouth to mine. Bristles from his cropped beard brushed my lips and chin. Harry knows you are here. He said it without question. He knows everything about me was all I could answer. "Edward" left me to bring books and a map to me, left me to them. A large basket of laundry sat next to him and he folded it over and over as I read. His muscled arms looked large in the sweater he was wearing. We are trapped, he said once, breaking the silence. He smiled at me and continued folding.

I do not feel trapped at all, but I know he is right.

There is no such feeling like drifting.