The Logical Starting Place

I reach for my coffee cup each day,

worried that the cups may have feelings.

I spread out my choices

so no one mug feels left behind.

.

Today, I pick the cup that I stole

from the flat where I studied abroad

(I’ve made my amends,

but kept the cup).

.

This was the only full-sized mug in the flat,

and my roommates and I would fight for it.

I’d hide it in my room—

the way I hid my struggle to survive

behind straight As

and flat abs.

.

Time collapses—an accordion contracting.

I hear the wheeze of air as I am pulled

thousands of miles away

and twelve years back into a version of me

long gone.

.

I see myself at nineteen,

hunched over that dining room table,

filling out PhD program applications,

bulimia ravaging my body,

drinking wine alone in bed.

.

I watch myself

running to stave off the fear

of a life wasted

while I was wasted.

.

Then the accordion releases,

opens to let air in,

and I am back.

.

Feet in worn-in slippers,

my dog waiting to be let in from the snow.

.

She bounds in, tail wagging.

Here.

Now.

.

I pour from the carafe.

French vanilla wafts up.

I never drink this flavor,

but I’ve run out

of chocolate caramel

Turtle Love.

.

French vanilla is the smell

of the coffee creamers

in the retirement home

my grandmother lived in

when I was eight.

.

And again the compression,

again the slip of time.

.

I watch myself,

just a child,

pouring coffee I should be too young to drink

into a Styrofoam cup.

.

Watch me fold myself into an antique chair,

see my grandmother’s perfectly coiffed hair.

.

As she pulls out the Scrabble board,

I sip my coffee

filled with nine French vanilla creamers.

.

I smile at my nana.

She smiles back.

I wonder how many bruises sit

carefully concealed under hot pink shorts.

.

Rejection of absurdities is henceforth the starting place for the deliberate study of metaphysics.

.

Then the puff of air, and I am back,

staring at my husband’s work gloves

discarded on the counter,

wondering if they need to go into the wash.

.

How odd

to be so many versions of myself,

to bear witness through a cup of coffee.

.

To travel

unbidden

the world over.

.

I wonder if the girls I’ve seen,

the girls I’ve been,

ever come to this home,

spend a few moments

looking around.

.

Do they feel

safer with me

than they do

with themselves?

.

I do.