When I Daydream

When I daydream you are wearing your flannel button down of fleece. I catch glimpses of you from our bed as you walk swiftly from room to room, lighting the wood stove, turning on the coffee pot, searching for your gloves. I watch you from our half-open door, waiting to catch your eye, waiting so that I can invite you to lie with me. My body is still warm, first heated by the fire in your veins. I lie wrapped in stiff, white sheets, my toes curling away from the heavy quilt’s edge.

Eventually, I will rise, pour myself a cup of coffee and put on your coat, your heavy leather boots, and stand on our square porch, just to look outside. I will stand outside only to see that, when I look up into the sky, the snow still falls noiselessly on my brow.

I’ll come inside and you’ll request your clothing back, so that you may leave for the day. In my dreams you will follow your heart deep into the forest, alone, where you’ve always felt you’ve belonged. We will kiss before your departure, with pursed lips, yours heavy on mine. And I, alone, will write about my heart—my heart masked by the vestiges of fiction.

The way I like it.

But, at home my daydream is interrupted by the rumbling of semi-trucks. They shake the house, and our feet quiver each time they pass. My daydream is interjected by the bonds we hold onto dearly: the security of modern medicine, the monotonous day to day grind of bringing home the bacon, your intermittent desire for easy comfort.

It’s too much, darling. Forget comfort. Let’s leave here today. We can break those bonds we’ve tied around our own wrists. Let’s take our beautiful blonde fairies and head north. I’m certain there is a cabin somewhere deep in those pine forests calling for us. Let’s not waste another moment waiting for those trucks to growl through and ruin our dreams. We’d be free.

Just say when.