I used to believe in the power of unlimited opportunity,
that if my children liked one marinara sauce,
then surely they'd like the next.
Just like I once believed life was like a series of beautifully furnished rooms,
maybe ascending up a staircase with an elaborate balustrade,
a crystal chandelier,
and pictures of white swans decorating the walls.
Anyhow, it wasn't true, and I learned to cook the same things over and over,
to make love to the same husband,
to cherish my friends.
I reuse cloth grocery bags,
and save the little plastic ones that produce comes in
so that I don't have to buy plastic wrap.
And I try to not to question why they refuse, for instance,
to eat a pasta of an unfamiliar shape.
Or to hate my husband for leaving his keys
lodged in the lock of our front door.
But sometimes, I carve out a little space
to become a swan,
praying solemnly, my head dipping into that rippling pool,
where I can see us flying upward forever,
beyond the familiar clouds--
to where even the hinges of our white paint-chipped doors
become more beautiful.