Kim Dower

breezy, floral, dancing with color soft, silky, flows as I walk Easter Sunday and you always liked to get dressed, go for brunch, "maybe there's a good movie playing somewhere?" Wrong religion, we were not church-goers, but New Yorkers who understood the value of a parade down 5th Avenue, bonnets in lavender, powder blues, pinks, hues of spring, the hope it would bring. We had no religion but we did have noodle kugel, grandparents, dads who could fix fans, reach the china on the top shelf, carve the turkey. That time has passed. You were the last to go, mom, and I still feel bad I never got dressed up for you like you wanted me to. I had things, things to do. But today in L.A.— hot the way you liked it—those little birds you loved to see flitting from tree to tree— just saw one, a twig in its mouth, preparing a bed for its baby—might still be an egg, I wish you were here. I've got a closet filled with dresses I need to show you.

I go to the corner liquor store for a bottle of water, middle of a hectic day, must get out of the office, stop making decisions, quit obsessing does my blue skirt clash with my hot pink flats; should I get my mother a caregiver or just put her in a home, and I pull open the glass refrigerator door, am confronted by brands—Arrowhead, Glitter Geyser, Deer Park, spring, summer, winter water, and clearly the bosses of bottled water: Real Water and Smart Water—how different will they taste? If I drink Smart Water will I raise my IQ but be less authentic? If I choose Real Water will I no longer deny the truth, but will I attract confused, needy people who’ll take advantage of my realness by dumping their problems on me, and will I be too stupid to help them sort through their murky dilemmas? I take no chances, buy them both, sparkling smart, purified real, drain both bottles, look around to see is anyone watching? I’m now brilliantly hydrated. Both real and smart my insides bubble with compassion and intelligence as I walk the streets with a new swagger, knowing the world is mine.