Daisies

We sit and we talk just like we used to
About insignificant things that never matter
in the grand scheme of things,
Like my neighbor’s blaring techno music that I ask her to turn down, politely, almost every single night,
Or about the fact that the eating disorder clinic in Seattle
Is located, ironically, in the “whale” building,
(A fact that didn’t make the receptionist smile, despite my best comedic efforts,)
But the entire time I talk to you I get this feeling
That you aren’t telling me everything and I want to ask you but I can’t ask you
About your small and fragile body – your cheek bones, rib bones, collar bones, elbows, so empty and ravaged by this disorder, so wrecked by these months, years, of strange and subtle neglect, that they are sharp enough to slice through our misconceptions and take us to that bizarre and unbelievable
Truth:
You are ill
And you need me to talk to you to take your mind outside of this place for a while
So I talk: about Gatsby, our bright blue beta fish, and my red umbrella with the polka dots and frills that makes me feel like I’m eight years old again, and the daisies in our yard that we never thought would grow – and you smile and you giggle and then you laugh and when I leave you seem
A little better; and I relax a little bit,
And it dawns on me that all I can do is talk to you and tell you things that maybe actually are
Significant, after all.
-Anna