To tell the story, I have tried to move the woman across the street. She needs to be in front of the neighbor girl whose eyes will seem to have changed color while the woman was gone for more than a year.
A father’s ashes in a blue box on the vanity. Bits of the last heartbreak handwritten on a window. A garden gone reckless for the winter. My secrets are not kept in the usual places.
Days like pages of handwritten manuscripts were caught by the wind, rearranged and lost. I will call that editing and leave it be.
Before the beautiful assistant climbs into the box, I leave, afraid he will forget the rest.
I was often sick when I was little. There were excessive bouts of strep-throat and numerous ear infections. They finally removed my tonsils when I was 6, and that took care of it for a time. Later, I seemed to develop a sensitivity to winter, and a persistent bronchitis would set in until spring. But …
Did the NRA really just call the mentally ill “evil,” and assume that all “sane” people are “good?” Really?
Persephone Buried, she lost sight of the surface and forgot the horizon. After a time, she stopped standing in the narrow tunnels, hoping for a cusp of light. She took her lovers without the promise of morning. Dark and full of fleeting want, she plucked them only for memory and let them fade, and when …
He asks for a secret. I tell him there is a quiet scar on my left forearm from an iron I shouldn’t have touched and a small freckle on my bottom lip that I drag beneath my teeth whenever I worry.
All I really want to do is crawl back under yesterday’s blanket.