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The woman in my kitchen

When I imagine myself
in my new house

it’s always quiet there
and usually I’m alone.

(Which is funny for a lot of reasons.)

I am standing in the kitchen
in the sunlight
looking out my
big
new
windows.

I’m holding a mug
(even though I don’t drink coffee)
and wearing a warm, cozy robe.

I’m smiling slightly,
a content
– at peace –
look on my face.

It’s early morning
(except I’m never up before 6:30)
and
of course
the kitchen is clean.

There is some clutter
(this isn’t complete fiction)
mostly because we just moved and we’re still unpacking.

And I’m thinking about how
good
it is
to finally be home.

The woman in my kitchen
could be me

(it rarely occurs to me she’s not).

But occasionally I wonder,
worry a little,

about what’s real
and what only exists

in my dreams.

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