Revisionist Tale

By Khadijah Ali-Coleman

i pick up and put away fallen toys and random
pieces of clothes and imagine my life before. when
floors were bare and so was the refrigerator and there
was no rush to fill it nor prepare dinner because “who eats?”
on Fridays anyway, not me & i exhale

winded after constant bending and rising, straightening items
that stand less than four feet tall, preparing to vacuum. in amaze-
ment that in a four year-span brown can become gray expanse
and worries change in chameleon fashion from single and dating
to play dates and naps. quiet time alone, now, a coveted reward instead of an unwanted declaration. i replace

markers to their bins, dolls to their perches and dress-up clothes to their closet. closing the door, i remember unfinished tasks that
await in the next room and consume the silence in thirsty
gratefulness, undaunted by her impending arrival.