I love it some days, and I know that I've already set the routine this way. I run to the curb in my pyjamas, garbage day, hearing the truck rumbling up the alley. His tongue and teeth are stained from my blueberry cobbler, 400 degrees in the oven, the old red cookbook with notes scrawled in pencil. I worked the dough for it to come out that way.

I fold his soft worn work clothes into a clean pile on his side of the bed, just how my mother did it. How many mothers before me did it this way? The warm heap of clothes on the bed, pulling the synthetic panties away from the pile, static crackles.

He held me last night, once my body released into the darkness with the moon, and we were happy with relief. I thought he'd say he loves me, but instead his eyes showed utter honesty and he said he didn't know where he'd be without me.

Honeysuckle pollen streaked my face, I wanted to be inside the flower and watch the forest from within. Rain washed it from my skin, his hands over my thighs, the Pacific water parsley gently brushes around us balancing on the reclining hemlock. A mist lingers in the wetlands, and I feel my mothers from many generations past watching me from the forest beyond.

The burdens of womanhood are ancient and humbling. The moons - when the tide goes out the dinner table is set. The tides - push me higher and strand me amongst the flotsam. Jetsam - I capsized into this man and I'm holding my breath, not knowing if he'll bring me to the surface. For good.