Kept up by appearances, you vacuumed yourself into a corner. Plastic wraps itself around everything here; your dining room chairs, your white couch, your smile, you.
You sent her away to keep this face. The glass table shined brighter as you waxed and waned all of your expectations for the life that never arrived. On paper yes. On paper he never cheated, you were happy, your children loved you. Also on paper, he gets sick and the angst of your children is confronted with morality and dilemma and then nothing. Who was to teach them if you never had the time to figure you out?
You were funny. The way you kept yourself off your own shit list with meticulous attention to detail. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in sight.
Your civilized, road raged, middle finger in the corner of the windshield. You hoped I wouldn’t see, but knew I would catch on.
Which might explain your mink coat continuing to hang here wrapped in it’s armor of plastic. I have promised and threatened to rid it away, but the gold looped embroidery of your name mend you alive. So it stays.
And now I am vacuumed out the door as I consider – plastic means forever.