I sit,

Unable to focus

On the crispy smelling newspaper

Pulling my attention into

The white picket fence family that we used to be.

Into our massachusetts home,

Surrounded by buoyant trees, buoyant hills,

Grass as soft as her wool sweater,

Flowers as white as her tiny shoes,

The perfect wife, the perfect daughter,

The perfect life.

Into our massachusetts backyard,

Where the sheep misses her soft touch,

Whose long rough hair has grown back,

And who refuses to eat.

Into our massachusetts yard,

Where the fragile porcelain doll rests,

And the pink from her dress starts to fade,

And her pale face no longer wants to smile.

Into our yard,

Where her hat lies on the floor.

The unworn hat that turned black from the dust,

From no longer sitting on her beautiful blonde head.

I come back.

I come back from oblivion. From perfection. To reality.

I glance over to my perfect wife,

Viciously knitting to avoid reality.

Black on her body.

Black around her eyes.

Black down her cheeks.

Black like the blackberries we used to joyfully pick.

Black. black. black.