I See Everything I Have Not Done

I see everything I have not done today:
The egg skins crinkled on the sides of the pan
float in the cold soapy water, the books piled
high: meanderings on self-help and living
with grief, the dog hair making nests
at the legs of the table, leftover coffee sits
in cups, there are crumbs on the countertops
from the bagels that always fall apart. I think
it’s the afternoon but I am still in my pajamas.
We continue like this. The sun melts the snow
in muddy patches. Pawprints waffle the sidewalk.
And I’m supposed to go on living. On the table,
half an orange peeled and ready to eat. Would you
believe me if I told you everything is muted like
a grey Pittsburgh day? Time is a fish I caught
with my father that one time at Moraine State Park—
it’s translucent flailing. We were meant to eat this fish
but my father saw the fleck of near death
reflected in my eyes and he let me send it back. Instead,
using his long nails to break orange skin, the sticky
sourness cupped in our hands. I don’t even know
how to order these memories that move in me;
a current of loss and remaking. I try to return.
Coil coffee cups on the sink, stare
out a window overlooking a hospital, this is
what longing is: elucidating the remains
of every encounter; memories a catalogue
of leaves—fallen, collected, recreated.