Bullet Proof

The ginkgoes bud eventually. Little knobs like a bad infection dotting their entire bodies. Other trees are further along, with sprightly new-green leaves exploding into the sky. I run, further and further south along the island, conduct long conversations in my head and forget to turn back, arrive at the bottom of the stairs with no words and no strength to climb. 

Where are you, lately?

I keep cutting my hair, restless with ennui and scared of complacency. It gets severely shorter every time, great tufts of golden hair at the bottom of the bathroom sink, eventually I'll have to face the fear instead because there'll be nothing left to cut. My mother sorts through 27 years of my life and asks what I want to do with it. 

Keep the letters, I want to say. Burn the rest.