I am waiting
until he thinks
it’s his own idea…

that we desperately 
need a vacation–
preferably near water
by a river or lake
with a pier,
catch perch or rainbow trout, 
cook it up every night for dinner.
The bright moon rippling, swaying
as if windows are open, the water 
sheer curtains illuminating the dark room
on a sleepy, breezy evening,
               Or
that we must downsize, 
sell the 3 story brick home
with the perennial gardens
and all those stairs.
The terra cotta roof 
always needs fixing.
Move to a “cute” stone cottage, 
shot gun house or ranch–all 
on one floor, a yard full–
evergreens, hostas and blue hydrangeas.
               Or
that we finally get married–
merge our souls and money,
eat breakfast and dinner
together every night 
curl up in a bed,
with 500 thread count ivory sheets, 
synchronize our breathing–
fall asleep feeling safe, feeling loved.

But I hear this in the hospital parking lot–
a lady on her cell phone
balancing a stuffed Vera Bradley bag
and huge grocery bag overflowing 
with green and red grapes:
I am waiting
until he thinks
it’s his own idea…

I get into my  own car–
home, by myself,
after visiting my husband,
who has fallen so many times,
we have both lost count,
wondering how she
will ever make it seem
that it is his own idea.