Mike’s Wife - Joseph Dimacchia

Violet, the little girl from old country—blasphemous in all of the best ways. Her face a song and her eyes legend. Four fingers on her right hand from that factory accident in ‘68. I could never buy her that pinky ring on the corner of Pearl and Whitney. “It’s more of a right hand ring,” she said. Yes dear, I suppose it is. There were dandelions on our lawn—floating away, perpetually in sight yet never in grasp. I ran away from home and grabbed one last Wednesday as she slept. I brought it back to put in her gray hair neatly-combed, passing prayers as I walked. Decades have worn in a day and my wife has turned me into a child chasing dandelions. I’m tired dear… perhaps soon one will land on my lap. I remember you dear… shivering and breathing heavy. I’m cold dear… let me button your coat.