I say, it isn’t lack of want, it’s lack of can, and he sinks into the corners, retreats with icy fingertips while you try to negotiate a trip after so many months without. There should be joy in travel but this time you feel mostly weight. His silence is deafening, speaks volumes. You clean the kitchen before you go, pour baking soda down the drain. The temperatures are going to hit swelter while you’re away. You water the plants.
Men fail us in all their shortcomings, their unwillingness to step up when the season calls for it, but we carry on, meeting more of them and turning them over in our palms. Will this be the one polished gem I retain in an ocean of sea glass?
My backpack is light. This journey has seen us before. Everything is different.
This is the only constant.
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