I’m scared of my air becoming so conditioned I forget what the sun feels like on the back of my neck.
The only kind thing you ever did for me was stop. I had to become the woman you once thought I was but didn’t have the time to wait for.
A man held me in his arms last night as the sun rose over Pope’s Hill. I didn’t think of you or him. I imagined I was holding myself on that hill. Protecting her from the poison of your stinging words and unkind acts. I broke in a way that, unfortunately, has allowed the world to see my cracks – maybe that’s fortunate? My words became my glue; the hope was that if I wrote enough I’d be able to re-attach the pieces of myself I kept finding in dusty corners long after your leave.
It feels good to be lying in the sun. It feels strange to think of you when there’s no longer any room available to keep you. I’ve become an avid ironer. Smoothing wrinkles with warmth and gentle pressure. And Manitoba has been courting me: like you, she’s a strong, silent type; but unlike you she's patient and there’s a humility behind those guarded eyes. You taught me the value in embracing silence. I hope I did something kind for you.