Coming and Going
It was still dark when you asked me what my days were like,
“before,” you said, “in your other life.” And when I didn’t answer, you
wondered why. “I meant, how did you spend your weekends,” you added, as though
I hadn’t understood the question. I wanted to tell you, but the answer wouldn’t
come. “I don’t know,” I whispered,
hoping the memories would appear if I spoke quietly enough. But they never did,
and I thought about where all the Saturdays and Sundays had gone. I began counting
them, fifty-two weekends a year, fif… I stopped. I didn’t want to
know. Pressure formed behind my eyes, my throat felt tight, and I was glad you couldn’t
see the details of my face. Those days, those years, all felt so far away, like
I had never lived them. I could hear you talking, but I focused only on myself and
the missing years. There was too much sadness, so I did what I had done for all those years. I disappeared.
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You knew I had left, run away for the briefest of minutes as
the sun began to rise. So you touched my face and pulled me back. You could
tell that I didn’t want to be gone anymore. I wanted to be there, with you. I stood
up and opened the balcony door to allow those first few beams of dawn to become
a part of our memory. In the presence of the hazy morning light, you fell asleep,
and I climbed into bed next to you. You smelled like lavender. When I kissed
you, you squeezed my hand and I could tell you were dreaming. So I closed my
eyes and chased after you, hoping to find you in the distant place your dream
had taken you.
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