“I want to bake a cake”, she said. “Here we go again”, I thought.

Her sudden urges. Her beautiful urges. I was amused when she told me she wanted to come here and cook me the chicken recipe she learned from her grandmother. “She’s already thinking about normal life here”, I thought to myself—confused. 

I am always in love-filled-awe, when she has those urges. When she has the urge to pick up random white stones on the shore. When she has the urge to go to the bookstore even if we don’t specifically need to buy a book. When she wants to cook something for me. When she wants to pluck random flowers and put them on my ears. When she wants to run towards dogs—and almost pick them up and run away with them. When she sternly pulls my head over her chest when I’m not sleeping still in her arms. When she wants to bake. She can bake. Day after day, I’m thinking there’s hope. She can bake. 

I want all of her urges to come true. I want to be there when she has all the animals she wants. When she sits on the beach, in the sun, listening to the soothing sound of the waves. I will be there. I will be there with the later walls and the nirvana posters and the knife sets. I will be there with the green sofas and the arched doors and the yellow lights. 

I will be there on her petal hands, counting my last breaths.

I will be the way her urges come to fruition.