Not just here. Everywhere. I haven’t been anywhere. Which you claim is impossible, but these months disappear under something I can’t explain. Maybe too much snow, maybe darkness. But, in fact, I have been away. The unspoken always remains unheard, n’est-ce pas? And what is, what could possibly be, the sound of disconnection? A pop, a snap, a snarl, a slorp. The click of heels on linoleum tile. It is the sound of belief and disbelief in love, in forgiveness. The sound of rejecting a celebration of one’s value. I approach minor milestones with apprehension.
“There ain’t no dress rehearsal,” he says. My ankles twitch against atrophy. Events tumble into avalanche and all my fears are buried. Nothing waits. I can be within or without. These are the doors: one, two, three. We always want door number four.