On Being Left, by Anna Binkovitz 1. Everything is cold. The world outside, with its January and early night; my body, the skin you knew only as warm and naked; and you. Telling me that we, the ten month belly laugh, are done now. Fading into only stomach ache. And I’m staring at the glove compartment, because we’re in your car, because you cannot face me as you say this, and it’s funny! Us. The entirety of it. Every word we ever said to each other could fit into this box in the dashboard; you could pull it out like a handgun. And I hope you do. It’ll be the security of knowing how easily you can leave love. Hold it, consider it from every angle, and then drop it into the confined black. We’re both crying, so I tell you that I love you. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, but I don’t expect it to bring you back to me, I say it more like lighting the last match just to watch it burn. It’s a small light. The final drops of wine, empty from the bottle, you can drive home now knowing that you got everything there was to give. You’ve seen the whole show. 2. On the anniversary of your leaving, I sit at home eating chocolate chip pancakes. There is a large quilt over the queen bed I bought with the hopes that you would come back. I even put the night stand on your side, you always liked a glass of water by the bed. I haven’t worn my necklace since you sent it back to me, after I laid in your bed for the last time, it’s like a rose on the grave. A year after burial, it is tradition to set the headstone. So I am hoping you will come back so we can do it together, that has always been our talent: Laying things to rest. But I haven’t seen you since that night. And so every time I picture your face, you’re crying. And I imagine that you have been crying for a year, and I have been crying for a year. And Minneapolis is a lake. And St. Paul a lake. And we could be pushed together like currents, but really, it’s January. If St. Paul were a lake, I would be underwater, frozen in place like a dead fish. This is the punishment for coming too close to the surface, for looking for you in restaurants, I am stoned for loving you. And sometimes, I like to imagine that your bed is an icy river when she is in it. That her skin cuts you like a winter wind, but I know that it doesn’t. Mostly, I wonder if you even still live here, if you moved away, if you sold the car, if you left us in the glove box. That silent and confined black. youtu.be/UecQ1mV4xDI
Posted on: Thu, 20 Nov 2014 08:53:34 +0000
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