Etta James is singing about Sunday Lovin’ and it’s cold and I feel like there should be some warm fire that I could be hovering over—drinking wine or tea; just listening to her. And maybe my cat purring.  And my lover breathing.  And the wind outside.

But its fucking cold and the heater blew up and no such fire exists in this house. I can’t really listen to Etta because I am doing all that I can to listen to my own damn voice, chocking, drowning—doing everything that it can to keep from being hushed out.  I can’t hear my cat because she is mad at me (yes, my cat’s personal dialogue is that in depth) and my lover is working. But I can hear the wind—I can hear it rush through those pathetic Palm Trees outside, knocking them to the ground. And I am in this frozen home praying to God that I am more substantial to the world than those Palms are to the wind.

Etta, I want to lie upon some dark Persian rug and close my eyes and listen.  I want to hear you move in to “At Last” and have it mean more than just a dream for me. I want to roll over and see my books unpacked upon shelves that I have been hiding in some dingy storage unit this past year. I want to know that my head is upon my own pillow and that in the kitchen, my own dishes are waiting to be used.  I want “At Last” to mean something to me—I want it to be tangible, I want to taste it and feel it between my fingers. I want it to mean that at last, I am home.

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