there is a day in the future — nearby, gods willing — when what was done will be un-done. the kitchen countertops will be free of clutter and half-eaten bananas. there will be no corpulent, snoring lump on the couch to tip-toe around. there will be no bins and boxes clogging the hallway and entryway. the second closet will be full of my winter clothes again. the kitchen table will fit only my laptop, dinner, and a flower arrangement. the 1830s chair will no longer strain under 244lbs of low self-esteem. i can go to sleep whenever i want to and wake up whenever i want to. i can walk around the house naked and the tiny bathroom will no longer be saturated with frequent showers and clumsy wet footsteps. i will replace several things she’s ruined: the toaster oven (seared plastic), the bathmat (drops of bleach), the chair cushions (cat stains). i will repair and clean many more.

i will buy an antique sickle, i will clean and hone it, i will burnish the handle, i will hang it over my door. i reap what i sow.