Please forgive my wandering mind, but I want to go to Australia. Forget about the long flight, and watch the kangaroos with their dangling arms cross the street. I want to smile at the way they say my name, Sheila. Have an old Aussie take my scarred hand and whisper, “How ya goin’ luv?” Nod back. If you only knew.
I want to go to a place where I can drink wine at lunch guilt-free. Tour a vineyard near the coast and dream about buying an old villa. Befriend the locals and whip up a mean spaghetti alla carbonara. Watch my prosecco sparkle in its glass, and toast to the year I never had. Listen to them laugh and think. Isn’t this nice.
Go to a place where I bow to show respect, and I’m admired for being tall. Drink loads of green tea and feel uber-relaxed because of all that L-theanine. Touch the translucent screen with my fingertips, close the shoji. Slip in the futon and sleep like never before. Learn how to play the shakuhachi and delete the Deuter station on my Pandora. I don’t need your music anymore. Be so relaxed that I’ll defy gravity, so I’ll float and swim in the clouds. And I’ll feel sorry that you can’t join me.
Go to a hidden forest and have the moss stain my vision green for days on end. Hum the song “The Misty Mountains Cold” as I walk around for hours in sacred silence. Go for a month-long stay in Bora Bora. Be greeted with fresh pineapple, and then graciously tell them that I’m allergic to pineapple. But I’ll dream of eating pineapples when I sleep over the water and grow delirious with their sweetness. The glass sea will be so breathtaking that I’ll forget how to cry.
Go to a red house with a pink door bathed in sunlight. Walk inside, leave the door open, and not faint when I marvel at its beauty. Flowers will adorn the counter and tabletops. Heavenly bulbous flowers that would make the Queen of Hearts jealous, or at the very least, she’d want to know my secret for growing such massive flowers. I wouldn’t tell her though. She’d have a tantrum, but I would only laugh. She wouldn’t; she couldn’t ever phase me.
I want to walk through the house, and run my fingers along the patched gossamer blue walls. I’ve missed you. Smell the lavender you sprayed a moment ago. Hear the cardinal that always pecks at the door. Poor thing, he’s confused, because the house is red. Notice how much the carpet of pink around the pool has grown. Wonder how the flowers fell so gracefully in the laps of the worn ballerina statues, and I’ll admire their patience.
Please forgive my wandering mind; I just want to be hopeful. It’ll be different this time. I close the pink door and pray.