I adored you. I believed in you. I welcomed you with excitement and fear. But now you’ve moved on and I don’t know what to do in your absence.
I had secret hopes for us. I imagined you’d sweep through my windows and clean me off. You’d keep me safe, of course, but you’d destroy everything unneccessary in my apartment. Irene, couldn’t you kindly mop the floors, undust my dusty surfaces? Couldn’t you just send me to live with my boyfriend in domestic bliss, so he can stock the fridge and pick up the laundry?
I was really hoping we could re-work my closet together. I could have used your impeccable editing skills to pare down to the absolute essentials. Designer vintage dresses? Gone. Galoshes? They can stay.
Irene, I fantasized you’d force me to rough it. Thanks to you, I would finally have a camping story. I would have survived the unthinkable, battled nature and won! And lived to blog about it.
I wanted this storm. I wanted you, Irene. But it wasn’t meant to be.