September 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

It’s the anniversary of your father’s death. You go into your room and you paint the paper cadmium red. The bristle claws through the fibers, but does not tear. She is aggressive, but stops just short of pain.

I am her audience. I can sit next to, or miles away from, her and still feel separate while she paints. I can listen to her heels lifting while she leans, in, away. She is miles away from her body.

She sees something that I don’t. A body is not a lake. Red is not fire and the green is not where you used to belong. That line delineates nothing. It is the eyelash of an old lover.

I can sit at my desk and chew on the pith of an orange and still taste it. There is nothing left on this fruit but a little white sponge that wets the throat with its aromas. I can sit at my desk and imagine that this is the feeling of loss.Image


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