He used to write letters for me.
Post-it’s, scrawled notes on handkerchiefs, missives on receipts
hidden about the house for me to find. ‘I love you’ turned into
haiku of small spaces and shaped containers. That was before
everything began to fall apart. Not us, him. Not even really him. I
didn’t admit it, not until he found a note I’d missed. Demanded
to know who had written it, to know if I was having an affair. The
first time I thought it a joke, the second — the second was when I
realized I was losing him. Losing him to the past, to memories I was
not always part of. I said I would stay: sickness, health, richer,
poorer. But who is as poor as someone whose loved no longer remembers
them? I haven’t been to church in two years. All I’d want to do
is scream. And I keep finding those notes, the ones he hid so well
against the future. All I can do is cry these days. Cry for so many
things.
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