I'm just cooking chicken on the stove and the oil has made love to the onions and everything has relented and I'm thinking about you. Sometimes I can stare through walls. I have X-ray vision pretend powers. I can see you and your face is turned in my direction, illuminated by a flickering television. I massage my head a bit, poking right where Google says my frontal lobe lives. I start singing to Emily Dickinson's ghost because she said that the "brain is wider than the sky" and I untie my apron and swing my hips to the music on my radio. Emily, I know it girl. My brain is wide and full and dangerous. I hope they kept your brain up there in Amherst somewhere. Girl. Put it in a jar and it sits on a windowsill and the sun shines through it most days.