For a short moment, I felt like myself, she says from across the state. Just a short moment, and then she was gone again. These years steal the very marrow from our souls, turn us into spectres of our old selves, those people we worked so hard to build. I wasn't perfect, I know, but oh, if I didn't believe in all the treasures to come.
Turns out the treasures were a wildfire.
I rummage through the debris left behind, try to find scribbles of my own handwriting, try to find signs of myself in the wreckage, but it's too hard, there's too little remaining of my blood in these veins, there's too little left of what looked like hope behind my eyelids, there was a Sunday morning one November when I woke to your goodbye kisses on my eyelids but I don't even know how to paint fireworks in the sky anymore.
They cut down the cherry trees along the river this week.
And all I had left was looking the other way.
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