by Meg Mullins
When you are a cabbage and I am still your wife, I will drag my fingers across your first tender leaves and remember your skin.
You will be intimate with the soil and the worms that live there, and I will find some comfort in that. There is magic happening in the depths, in your roots. A flirtation, a witty banter, a transfer of code.
Darkness will still fall, and I will still be alone, but some nights standing in the moonlight and marveling at your unfurling—your wide, veined leaves greening more each day—gives me a sense that you are doing it all for me.
I sleep on my side, my legs curled into my belly. I dream that they will bury me soon; that I can blossom too.
In the predawn darkness, before even the dew has settled, my eyes will find your pale flesh.
I have lunch with our daughter. She cries. I hold her.
I will take a walk with the dog. We will stop and linger at every rosemary bush because you aren’t here to be annoyed. I will rub a spindle between my thumb and forefinger so the scent is on my skin, forgetting for a moment that you won’t put your nose to my fingers ever again.
At home, you are sunning yourself in a patch of afternoon warmth. The dog will find it too and will lay beside you with a heavy sigh just like the old days.
Tentatively, I begin to tell you about lunch. My voice must sound funny in the empty yard, and the dog studies my face for clues.
I will scream at you the way I wish I had never screamed at you. There are curse words, tears, and insults.
And you? You will say nothing.
The patch of sunlight has shifted, and now you are in shade. You seem sad.
“Cheer up,” I say. “Look at you! You’re a fucking cabbage.”
Just then, a little white moth flutters around, and the dog puts a paw right on you and chomps its jaw, trying to catch the moth. “Careful,” I say, worried. The dog looks at me and wags its tail.
I will brush the dirt from your head, and from there I will bend even closer. The dirt is cool on my knees. Your leaves are tight, and there is little resistance to my touch. In days you will be ready for harvest. I inhale the bracing sweetness of you. Before I can catch it, a tear falls, and then, my darling cabbage, a kiss.
Meg Mullins is the author of three books published by Viking Penguin: The Rug Merchant, Dear Strangers, and This Is How I’d Love You. Her work has been translated into eleven languages and optioned for film. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous journals and been included in The Best American Short Stories 2002. She earned her MFA in Fiction from Columbia University. She was born and raised in New Mexico and happily returned there to raise her own children.