Never will I ever
The scale is tipping, and I'm okay with it.
The world was reckless and ringless. My life used to fit into two boxes and a 25-minute phone call. A mattress on the floor. One spoon and a one-way ticket. What ever happened to all the not yets? The scale is tipping. Never will I ever— race a grocery cart downhill. Kiss someone I shouldn’t in a stairwell without wondering who’s watching. Wear white inside. Wake up to a text that says made it home safe / miss you already. Never will I ever— feel tiny feet caress my belly with butterfly flutter. Watch my grandmother press a basil leaf into my hand and say: smell the summer. Say something my kids won’t remember, but I most certainly will. Never will I ever— hold my father's hand in the Sagrada Familia after we lost track of God down by the crowded market where the wind did all the talking. Never will I ever— never again. Which is to say: I did. Which is to say: I'm glad I am now made of every almost that said yes.
beautiful!