The Fragrance of Apples
I am no longer the fragrance of apples. My hair spilling down and around my partner’s chest is only a distant memory. My curves … are gone.
I am medicated powder in the folds of my belly and under cotton flannel, Arnica on my hammer toes.
Our blanket, old, frayed and favorite, protects from this reality, encourages memories of wrestling in the bushes, driving up back roads, one sleeping bag.
No more TV antics, arched backs or tabletops.
Now we lay in comfort and dreams, side by side, legs entwined, pillows just so, the fit a gift of perfection under our blanket.
Never have I been this shy. Never, ever, will I go back to pretend.
It’s your open face that moves me to these heights. Joy coursing from my eyes to my toes … my budding out, my bloom, my flower, my bliss.
Margot Genger lives in Eureka.
