after Sarah Russell
My old therapist used to call my now-husband
small town Joe, and told me I was making a mistake
marrying him. Ten years later, as our son naps,
I think of myself in an alternate universe,
one where I took that advice. I live in a
brownstone apartment on the lower
east side, with a poet-forced-to-be-professor,
surrounded by books (organized by genre).
We spend our Sunday mornings completing
the New York Times crossword
over black coffee and farmer’s market
blueberry scones. Hank Mobley’s
tenor sax croons from the record player,
lofting through the window and out
into the neighbourhood, where someone
else’s kids play on the sidewalk–
hopping, or skipping.
The funny thing is, I dumped that therapist
and married Joe. Our three-year-old is
just one small (or, not-so-small) testament
to all we have these days.
My carpenter husband dreams up
poetic lines all day, comes home and says to me
I thought about tear-stained eyes today;
you should use it in a poem. Joe, as I write,
is building me a reading nook, surrounded by
shelved books (by genre), overlooking the creek
at sunset– all oranges and purples– in our
new, forever home. We blast Grateful Dead
on the weekends, cook bacon and eggs,
dance in the kitchen and laugh
boisterously. Our own child cuts a rug,
slapping his knee and bouncing to the beat.
And if this isn’t some kind of kismet,
I don’t know what is– because I’d choose
this life, one hundred times over,
again and again.
Kim Przybysz lives in Western, New York with her husband, son, and golden retriever. She earned her M.A. from the Bread Loaf School of English. An English teacher of over fifteen years, when she’s not teaching, Kim can be found writing. The solitude she cherishes is a roaring fire, birds at the feeder, and the sound of her dog sighing. Her work has been published in the English Journal, among other publications.