Susan Senator

I am not a refrigerator.
But when you were born
There was something so fragile,
so tenuous
wispy
I was terrified.
I couldn’t even leave the house.
Somehow, I thought you would die.
I was afraid to get too close
deep down
So afraid of losing you,
just a little ball with a face painted on
you could just roll away
A terrible sadness gripped my mind
Maybe it burst through my own tangled synapses
Maybe it rose from the hormones that nurtured you
Or maybe I knew something.

I thought you were going to leave me somehow
There was this impermanence
In the light, then out.
Shimmering, like the string you liked to look at.

I got over it
I guess.
But —
Now.
You are going to leave
I am dodging you
bouncing off you with my smiles
Keeping myself safe
and cool
But I’m really not a refrigerator.