I met him at baggage claim, of all places, half asleep, barely knowing where I was. Luggage was circling and we were looking for what belonged to us. The sound of falling water when our arms touched. Funny that, to feel a body and think of water. Does anyone want me to marry? Do I want to marry? I remember the wallpaper in my childhood room: water combing a wheat field. I used to touch the storm. My mother chose paint for my teen years. Bubblegum girl and a doll’s head in the closet. Nothing being born. Just me walking these rooms. Soft click: that’s me opening the door, a door one can hardly find in all this pink. It confused my grandmother when she slept here once, more than she was already confused. How to get out of this pink humming room. I smelled sweet basil from the window. It was spring. Or it was winter and I only imagined green, as I imagined water when our arms touched.
Debra Gitterman received an MFA from Warren Wilson in 2006. She lives in New York City.
[ back to top ]
|Copyright © 2016 | Post Road Magazine | All Rights Reserved|