If you’d ever asked me to tell you the story of how I became this way, I’m not sure where it is I’d even begin to start. Between the actions and the shadows, the arugula and the parsley, the buttery shortbread cookies and the cellophane bags of 6 or so gummy “fruit snacks”—7 if you were lucky—, between all of it and all of you and all of me… what is there still left to tell about?
The way the streetlamps make the wet pavement gleam not white or yellow, but jack-o-lantern orange, and all the windows I saw them through. The trysts of being new but still so old, of knowing every word to the prayers but not a soul in the pews. The time it took for the synapses to fire and the thoughts to travel down the wires before I realised that it was honestly the end.
There’s everything left to tell about, sweetheart. But God, when was the last time someone asked me?
Oh, right… just last night.
I guess I’m forgetful sometimes, caught up in the silken tangled threads of all my remembering.