So that explains how, while you were sleeping, I anxiously chewed my fingernails to a nub. I tapped and twisted and fidgeted, staying still was never my strong suit. I was pensive and then manic, vacillating between the two every few minutes. I ranted and raved. In a moment, I calmed down on my own, pushing the lid back down on the bubbling pot and holding the contents at bay at a low simmer. Instead,
I baked and cooked up a breakfast feast for midday snacking. When I ran out of ingredients, I hopped over to the grocery store and cleaned out their entire supply of butter and eggs. Every surface of the apartment became covered in pie and other assorted breakfast pastries.
I orchestrated imaginary fights with you, arguing both sides, and dissolving into angry tears at the end. We didn’t come to blows in the first 500 scenarios.
I read out loud to you. You have lucid dreams.
I cleaned the oven, and in doing so, found an alternate entrance to Narnia. After three decades and way too much Turkish delight, I found my way back to the apartment where only thirty seconds had passed since I disappeared.
I wrote a twitter novel which quickly went viral and turned into a NYTimes bestseller. However, on Amazon, I only focused on the one star reviews and hated myself.
I attended a roast in your honor and made the opening salvo.
I downloaded plans to build a tiny house on wheels and take it on a cross country road trip. I trimmed down my belongings to the bare essentials, grew a beard, and took a shower once every other week.
I aged fifteen years and then back again. No one noticed which was both morale boosting and killing.
I hitchhiked to Death Valley and snapped pictures of the glaring white sand against a blue bird sky.
When you finally awoke and saw me in my flour-covered, ratty-haired, nerve-wracked glory, you raised an eyebrow. You’ve always been one of few words. “Why didn’t you wake me to join you?”