Monday, May 28, 2012

    As I write on my iphone, She sits beside me on the mattress reading quotes from Honest Tea labels.

    She has a bag before her full of them and takes them out one by one.  Peels them apart.  Peels them open.  The adhesive makes that sticky parting sound.

    I lay there and type words on the digital notepad.  Writing words about Her.

    She begins reading the quotes.  One after the other.  Places them in a pile to Her right.

    I don’t listen to anything She says.  I hear Her voice.  It’s balanced and calm.  Low and contemplative.  Soothing and safe.

    I hear Her stumble over the pronunciation of a few of the names.  I hear Her try to sound out each syllable.  Pensively.  Cautiously.

    I pause and rest my head on the pillow.  Wonder if She’s reading these things to me or to Herself.  Wonder if She realizes I’m ignoring Her.

    What is the motivation here?

    What’s something you take with you everywhere you go? She asks.

    I shrug my shoulders.  Stare at Her.

    Give me your phone, She says.

    And I hand it over.  Without hesitation, I hand it over.

    She grabs a pair of scissors, some tape, and after a few minutes She returns my phone.

    On the back it reads: The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall - Marianne Williams

    I read it and smile.  Spread myself about the mattress.  Exhale one long, full breath.

    A few hours later, after I’ve left Her house and have ventured out into the heat, I remove my phone from my pocket.

    The words are gone.  

     I dig my hand back in and pull out curled, wet versions of what once was.

    Then I fall.

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