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  • dearabi

you’re a bird.

The other day I was sad. Not sad, sad. Just little kid sad, pouting and stuff. It was 79 degrees and we don’t have a deck, or a balcony, or a backyard, or nearby beach or park to lay out in and we’ve been in purgatory for 53 days. You were waist deep in work, but looked at me sulking long enough to say, “You’re a bird, you need to be free”. And for a second, I loved you like it was the first time again.

You always get me, except for when you don’t. But when you get me, you get me. Like the time you brought home Humphry Slocombe “Secret Breakfast” even though you don’t like me eating all the sugar, or laying out my yoga mat and pausing the video right before the first pose starts. Or restringing the tie in my workout shorts, because I don’t have the patience to do it myself. Or when you make half the bed before you go to the driving range, so that I could finish making it when I wake up. 

See, it’s not so bad I tell myself. But sometimes, I hold on to the resentment so tightly, I let everything else slip away. I forget you’re trying too and don’t want it to be like this. So I pack your pills for you every Sunday, making sure to include two Pepcid’s in the morning and three at night. I squeeze you extra tight in between meetings even though you think I’m as affectionate as a pinecone. I drive around for 10 minutes looking for parking, yell profanities at all the one-way streets, and accidentally drive into a parking garage, because I know how much you miss Philz. And every night before I go to bed, I ask the universe to send you things you don’t think to wish for yourself.

I know it doesn’t work that way, but I do it anyway. ‘Cuz “if I’m a bird, then you’re a bird too”. 

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