When I woke, the thoughts subsided and were quiet for a time.
I thought I heard the church bells but then a truck roared and the heavy thud of its wheels on the speed humps made my silence darken.
I tried to recapture what it was I had felt that first morning waking up in your bed. Listening to the sounds of the street, the distance of the fields from the road carrying the soft haunting of countryside; thoughts of you in your sister’s bed, a wall away. And my palms tingled and my eyes filled with tears as, once again, the fleeting illusion left me in my own warm house, catcalls on the street, a car alarm startling the train of thought from my already dissembling mind.
I breathed a few seconds peace and lay still wishing the air filled with dust and farm smells, rather than the tang of exhaust mingled with must and Monday.
There will always be remembrance. The shock of past tense swung back like the top of the barn door, flooding sunlight onto polished flagstones and the trill of birdsong echoing down the ladder of life. Here I am on the second to last rung. But my god I’m climbing up not down.