This is a Letter

This is a letter to martinis, chicken liver pate and Girl Scout cookies. To late night games of Blitz and Hangman on my Iphone. This is a letter to the small corner of the bed that I unfold each night, a cotton envelope that I slip myself into. This is a letter to the ritual of two blue tablets of Sleep Eaze from Walgreens. To the bottle of Prosecco in my refrigerator just in case. To the bulging clothes drawers – bathing suits and sexy lingerie – woolen mittens – clothes bought in haste – an attempt to change my life. To the old cashmere castaways from my glamorous aunt– clothes she’s worn forever  – 30 years-  still in perfect condition – perfumed and luxurious – her walk in closet in L.A. soft paint chips arranged by color. Here’s to the must-dos, the will-dos, the should-haves and the when-I-have-time fors:  cleaning out my closets, paying bills, get the tires checked. And here’s to that bathtub and its siren song of love. One summer, the worst summer, I got in nearly every day – it was the only safe place; contained and warm and wet. And here’s to the letter my then 10-year-old daughter taped to the bathroom wall directly across from where I lay.  “Mommy” she wrote, “we love you, who wouldn’t?”  And to the cigarette I smoked after that bath, out on the porch in my summer skirt, relieved that my husband had taken the girls for a ride and that I could be alone again. I could hardly tolerate myself. It was even harder to be with...