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Walking outside in the February mist and cold,
one block over from the house where I have lived
for quite some
time, my couch
seems far away, that year spent upon it
merely a dream, a dream
set next to the battered
brown coffee table – the one that got left behind
by the renter
who escaped into the night
without saying goodbye or paying
his last's month rent – and the television, bought
more than a decade ago yet
still hanging on, ensconced upon its shelf
inside the hulking black armoire
that I never did much like.

During that year of lying on the couch, remote
control in hand, I pushed many buttons
and waited, subterranean, for my release
from the devil's pink pills that were meant
to make me well again, maybe save
my life, even. Festering
upon the moss green cushions
and matching pillows that were mashed
against the small of my gargoyle-ridden spine, I knew
I had been placed in solitary confinement,
with no chance of appeal.

But I'm stepping along freely now, no longer fettered
by that prison. In fact, I'm feeling
much better. I've been switched to a
different pill. I move
through the winter air and
existential fog, and as I stroll,
I begin
to see
that my memories of that year on the couch
will not wave goodbye.

My past is here to stay. My job is to not
shove it away.

Across the street, gray
cement stairs and a black iron railing live
against a pale stucco wall. I feel drawn
to their
wordless symmetry, their
soothing repetition, and to that cluster
of leaves, that green
hanging down from some tree, some
branch up above but out of sight.

Once back home, I return
to my spot on the couch, and I turn on
the fancy new fireplace with its built-in
electric heater. The flames pull me in
despite their lack of crackle
or smell. I like the way they flicker and whirl. I'm glad
I found this deal, glad I ordered it off the Internet, glad I had
this fireplace delivered, placed at my feet, the feet
of a queen who sits on a moss green couch
that is her throne.

When we opened the box, put the fireplace together,
and plugged in the cord, I liked how things had changed
yet again, but at the same time, I was also afraid
they would continue to.
That felt traumatic, like an
out-of-control teeter
totter.

Then the dog barked. Someone was at the door. I
ascended from the couch and went to see who it was.
I liked that I could stand and walk down the hall without
pain. It felt
good to turn the knob, to swing
the door wide. It struck
me then that even though I was afraid, I
could still be glad. I could rejoice
when I recalled my year
on the bloody awful couch. I could
sing,
I could raise
my voice and holler
hallelujah to the high blue
heaven.

It was a vagina-look-alike of many lips, crevices, ripples, folds and depths. A vagina impersonator of great beauty and mystery. When Abigail saw it on the tree trunk, of course she pulled out her camera and took a picture.

Later, after she printed the photo, she marveled at the bark's colors and textures. There were shades of red that she didn't have any names for, and folds of pinkish tan that swirled and coalesced around the reds. All in all, it formed a blatantly lovely invitation.

One day not so far away, time would turn the surface of her photograph yellow. Knowing this, Abigail went ahead and fed her heart while she could with vagina-like thoughts of gone-by silkiness and flowerings, emotional battlefields, hysterical bloody drumbeats followed by moments of sublime, fulfilled calm.

She went through The Long List of all those with whom she had shared her own vagina, ticking them off in alphabetical order. Every time she re-did this list, she remembered someone she had forgotten to include the last time, or forgot someone she had formerly included. Anselm, Bill, Bo, Bob and Brad. Charlie, Darius, David and Don. . . . . Paul, Sam, Ted, and Tom. . . and so on and so forth, all the way down the line to dear old Zack.

Before she knew it, noon had come and gone. She had not yet taken her laptop, with its broken inner cable – the one that controlled how images appeared on the screen -- to the local repair shop. She had not yet gotten around to duplicating the all-important keys to the supremely important doors. As for the graying roots of her hair, needless to say, they had not yet been dyed.

She began to make a mental list of all her other incompletions. Things she wanted to start but hadn't, yet. Things she wanted to change. Things she wanted to stop. Things she wanted to do or say or learn. Feelings she wanted to express …

But the vagina on the tree interrupted her: "Forget about those lists," it said. "Speak to me instead. Think about what you really want to know or feel or remember, then ask me a question."