toeing the edge of the rubicon
freshman year of college,
i break the first rule of dorming with someone else:
i touch her stuff. it’s october, and just starting
to get cold. i wear a sweater and a jacket at all times now,
but i’m always caught off guard by the rain.
i don’t watch the weather reports anymore;
this has something to do with
why i am on my roommate’s side of the dorm,
but i do not connect the two.
it takes me an hour. it shouldn’t,
but it does. i stop to look out the window, to examine my hands,
to wonder why they are not shaking.
i stop to write, but i don’t get much farther than
“dear mom and dad” before i give up.
my roommate won’t come home for at least
one more day. i have all the time in the world.
all the time i have left could fit in the palm of my hand,
and there’d still be room for the pills.
the thing is, my roommate gets sick a lot.
chronic migraines, asthma, the works. i watched
her unpack all her pill bottles the first night on ca