paper anniversary

I want to take time out from drafting a new poem on the bed—-breeze from the river window, hair drying in spirals—-to mark the one-year anniversary of when I finished writing my novel. I stayed up all night, went to bed when the sun came up, woke up about noon and told my mother. She took us out to dinner. I’ve spent the year since writing seven drafts, I’ve fallen in love, and I’ve dreamed the next book I am now just beginning to think about writing. Index cards in a rubber-banded package. Notes in a purple notebook. It’s a bigger project than the last one, which took me three years (and counting). This may take more but I am excited. This life will take more but I am excited. We sat by the river on a pink blanket and read, the sun on our feet, our arms all tangled. More and more, I think this is what I am meant to do. I’m looking for an agent. If you know one, are one, or would recommend yours, let me know.