Hermit Year (Almost Over)

Today I wore a necklace—

yellow dried flowers, resin

set on shell, a choker

I found at a thrift store

eleven years ago—

a lifetime ago.

I left my husband,

comatose in bed,

to see Billy Joel in Chicago

with his friend—

a woman.

I didn’t think twice

when we stopped at the thrift store.

I bought this necklace.

We went to the concert,

rode the L there and back,

fell asleep side by side

on her couch,

season two of Orange Is the New Black

spooling through the night

until Netflix asked:

Are you still there?

We weren’t.

I had already moved on—

to a new husband, new house,

new job, new life—

still wearing the necklace.

Everyone talks about five-year plans,

about goals. I never had the chance

to tell her I did those things

we dreamed about that night.

Cause divorce always ends

conversations with his friends.

And now, as the wheel turns again,

the gears grinding beneath my feet,

I see the house that was never quite right,

the coworkers I liked well enough,

the streets I never liked to drive—

and I can say goodbye, goodbye,

knowing I’ll land gracefully,

wearing the years

around my neck

like gold.