My Hidden Lives // Prose

44. about the turning of the seasons

10 turn of the seasons

You asked me to wait
and promised you would love me,
by spring.


We used to talk about how our lives might turn out differently. We used to say – wait for me, I am not myself in this moment and the person you see is only a monochrome copy of what I am to become. You should stick around to see me burst in all colors imaginable, dripping paint and light and warmth around me.

We used to scream at each other through nights of heavy drinking and misplaced hopes. You’d tell me then, you were a burden too heavy for my weak young arms to carry and that I should put you away. In the morning, when we woke up and the hang-over-guilt reared its ugly head, you’d cry silently into the crook of my neck.  You used to love it, because it made you feel safe. Don’t give up on me yet, you pleaded. Don’t give up. Wait.

By spring, the calluses will thicken. By spring, I will feel no anger. If I only wait, you promised, I will toughen up. It’s a good lesson for a girl like me, pampered, floating in my pink balloon resembling a womb.

You used to say, „I will be the one to teach you about life.“ Then we’d sing to each other to drown out the falling rain, another season on our minds.

My father brought a bunch of snowdrops to my room this morning. I couldn’t help but cry, and you didn’t understand where my sadness was coming from. I said never mind, and took a photograph of you sitting in the blooming park, arms crossed firmly across your chest. When I finished the roll of film and saw that it held no more than the usual grays, I decided it was time to let you go.


You think, therefore you are.

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