Sitting at Larsen's fish market, where we sat just last summer, I decide
to order a fresh lobster and watch the ocean like it was my own
tradition. The young 20 something Ukrainian kid working the register
picks up a few lobsters to weigh and throws all but one back into the
waiting tank.
I wonder if the other lobsters ever try to will themselves back into the
sea or just gone from this earth all together. Or maybe they don't.
Tonight, I cleaned out our junk drawer of bills and organized our linen closet. I fed our cats
and made a quiche. And at 5:40pm, I noted the time.
Maybe you're getting home to your new apartment. Or maybe there's traffic or road sodas and detours.
I'm not waiting for the sound of your tires on the gravel tonight, always
backing in to the driveway, and your key fumbling, one handed entry.
On the weekend, morning will seep through our shades, and I'll rise when I'm ready
to coffee and cats and a walk to the farmers market on my own.
It was an unexpected weight that pulled me deep into this tank, only to
wait again for your imminent catch and release. Or maybe I won't.
