Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

A Writer's Dilemma

I didn’t take the flight with you.
I didn’t sit beside you and eat our leftover Thanksgiving dinner,
the one with the macro yams and bok choy and wild rice
that never really turned wild.
I didn’t sit beside you and laugh about the man in front of us
with the pointy head,
or at the one across the aisle that couldn’t keep from jiggling his leg for more than a few seconds
at a time.
I didn’t ride with you down Michigan Avenue and marvel at the snow as it came falling
on the empty streets
ready for the Day after Thanksgiving shoppers.
I didn’t hold your hand in our red Cobalt rental car and feel yours in mine
and smile at how many years I have loved you.
I didn’t take the ride out to Deerfield
to eat the way we never eat now,
sugar, sugar and more sugar.
I didn’t come and see your family
and quietly kick you under the table over something someone said
that I found absolutely unbelievable.
I didn’t sit around and make small talk and wish that I were home at my desk writing.
I spent the day alone
in the grey
wishing that the deer in the backyard would come back again.
I spent the day watching others run around trying to get ready.
I spent the day in silence
trying to remember who I am.
I spent the day wishing
I could be
in two places
at once.