An Unfinished Woman

She wonders if she will always be an unfinished woman.

On days when the air is thick and the hum of the washing machine is playing in the background, her breath is heavy.

A breeze through the open windows puts a smile on her face and she decides to sit on the sofa bed a little longer, aware of the cicadas buzzing in the heat.

New adornments: feathers carved from metal and sunglasses to conceal her gaze, feel like an invitation into the next version of her.

She wonders how she'll convince him to paint every room white. She found the palest grey pillows today and regrets leaving them behind.

She's itchy with restlessness, thinking ahead to bonfires and marshmallows and a walk down dirt roads. Anxious to find out who her new self is, she plans her attire to include something a little different.

The washing machine plays a little ditty behind her, indicating it's time to move.