I'm not doing too well with being home. Because I'm mad at you, you see. Furious. Hurt. Longing. I miss you and those kids more than I know how to say. The missing is weird. It's not like every other time I've missed someone or some place. This time everything is off. The corners don't line up and the experience of the feelings themselves mimics those that would come if you were sitting alone in a bland, finished cellar somewhere. You're there because maybe you were starting laundry or looking for a pair of old work boots. And you've just been running, running, running all day so when you eye a dusty folding chair, you decide to slouch for a minute, massage your face. (Who will know that you rested?) And that's when your mind finally acknowledges the brush of damning, dark thoughts you've been letting float between the hallow of your skull's marrow and brain's squish for days. And you just lounge there, feeling the brush and elbowing its source back and altogether sure that life has never been so hallow.
That's how it feels when I think of you, of France, of everything I gave up.
No comments:
Post a Comment