Sitting in a swivel chair that is not mine.
Ankles crossed, propped on my bed.
Folded pair of gray leggings, strewn mess of a new purse, blue socks, pajamas, a thank you note, and one flower crafted by a young boy, made of Charleston palm fronds.
The light is on. Also on the nightstand is: one plastic red cup with hearts on it, water in the bottom, a roll of toilet paper used as makeshift Kleenexes, a sampler of Armani perfume, a tile with a photo of Matthew and me, a card from my grandmother that says, "Have a fun day on your graduation. Sorry I have to miss it". A black hair-tie, assorted bobby pins, a note.
I have: coffee breath, hair in a headband, a cardigan on, sun-kissed cheeks, a cough that lingers from the fan spinning dust in the air all night, and I must use the restroom.
Today marks: exactly one month since I graduated college with my English degree.
Also: I am going to two vintage consignment shops to look for bird-cage veils for my wedding day.
Furthermore: I cannot wait to be married.
But: Lord-willingly, we won't have children for awhile.
Admittedly: I am still too selfish for kids.
Amen.
Notice: My purple African Violet has grown so much that it is too big for its pot. This flower symbolizes renewal and growth to me, as I received it as a gift and promised to nurse it back to health. It was nearly dead with four leaves at that time. It now has over thirty leaves and countless blooms.
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