attached

I get very attached--and I'm not saying this is a bad thing--to curling ribbon, and the way a whole mass of it looks in gold and silver and white spilling across the top of a carefully wrapped gift. I get very attached to jigsaw puzzles, to the pieces of dogwood blossoms taking slow shape above the red barn and striped river under the green sky. I learned this from my mom, and that's why last night we almost stayed up too late together trying to finish the one laid out on the table. It was hard to walk away. I get that from my mom, too. They're not vices, the ribbon and the puzzle pieces. Neither is the attachment I feel to my boyfriend's hillbilly voice or the way warm spring lightning sometimes creates the backdrop to a day. I am attached to the silver ring on my finger made to look like a leafy vine. Am attached to the cool, soft sensation that comes when I stretch my clean legs down along the length of my unmade bed. I'm not ashamed of little public indulgences taking the place of the big private ones I keep closed behind my lips. Much easier to admit to my clinging, velcro personality when under the heading of Addicted To I can start my list with curling ribbon and jigsaw.