Aside 22 Jun

I’ve had a rare weekend alone – something I’ve always relished. But after the busy buzzing of my daytime slips into evening, a pit settles into my stomach. It is in these silent nights at home that your absence is amplified.

It is late day and I lie on my bed, watching the taupe sheers ripple in the light breeze that blows in through the window. On the floor is the locked brown accordion briefcase that once belonged to my grandfather and now bulges with my secrets. Inside your old flannel shirt, the seal picture, a note in which you say I am “the single fucking thing I get right every day.”

Snippets of memories – fifteen years’ worth – frozen images collected on a reel, clicking through my mind.

I turn over, stare at the ceiling, breathe. 

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