My Cardboard Balcony

Post-Holiday by Belinda Roddie When you wrap the lights around you, I get an eerie sense of déjà vu. All the colors taste the same on my memory's tongue - sweet, but with an uncomfortable afterthought. You made brioche for Christmas again, and pluck-it bread for Easter, and I dipped two fingers into your coffee mug and spread the charcoal residue around my mouth like lipstick. There are some things I care to remember, things that aren't so sugary, as I briskly sweep the needles away.

For dessert, we ate a chocolate pie, loaded with homemade whipped cream. We drank warm milk that frothed up around our lips and then kissed each other's milk mustaches. We snuggled. We cuddled. We shrieked and we giggled. We were children again, even when in our forties and fifties. Howard fell asleep that night and didn't wake up the next morning. But when I saw him sprawled on the couch, he had the smile of a schoolboy. And despite my tears, I couldn't help smiling, too.