Last Night I Dreamed I Made Myself by Paige Lewis
your paperweight. This seems wrong. Seems like a sign that I need to spend more time on my own, so I
call my friend and drive him to the store full of overpriced healing stones. I want the women shopping to know I’m not
with my friend. I want them to know how great I’m doing with my adventures in independence. I’m ready to shout,
Look at my healthy new life! But my friend thinks it’s a bad idea to frighten people in a place with so many hard throwables.
Would they hurt me? These women look as if they’d smell like pink magnolias and violin rosin if I got close enough,
but I won’t. I’m too busy searching for the stone that best represents me—it’s not the blue one specked with God bits,
or the ear-shaped obsidian. It’s not anything polished—and I think about how hard it is for me to believe
in the first Adam because if Adam had the power to name everything, everything would be named Adam.
Then I think, That’s a pretty smart thought. I don’t say it to my friend. I don’t say it to the magnolia women. Do they still
count, these hours I’ve spent on my own, do they still count if I’m saving all of my shiniest thoughts for you?
