A Haibun for the Morning After

I’ve made you dinner

my specialty casserole -
cheesy polenta.

The kitchen table hasn’t been cleared in a year; the hand-blown glass salt and pepper shaker I received last Christmas, never filled with spice.  You say nothing about the cobwebs in the corner; don’t even surreptitiously brush them away when my back is turned to pull the casserole from the oven.  I don’t notice the webs until the morning after when I’m re-arranging the table for one again,

perhaps the last time.
Between kisses and polenta
we said yes to us.

I recently read about a couple who got engaged eleven days after their first date.  We haven’t even dated three months; I’ve become a cliché lesbian bringing the U-Haul on the second date.  We each have our doubts, but I’m choosing to set mine aside and trust. “You could move in with me if you sell your house before we find one we both like.” 
“Really?”
Yes!

Still yes this morning
after.  Summer breezes, soft
clink of open blinds

against open windows.  Rightness reigns in the robin chatter. The long winter has finally ended.