Sometimes, I stop myself—catch a memory like a reflection in the mirror and think, Would it have been different if I’d done it like this? Or this? And I begin to pull and pick at what was better left alone.
I rewrite—perhaps, I bought this type of knife because I knew he hated its shape. If I would’ve dropped his favorite glass the night before, what would have changed? What did I set in motion by moving out alone?
And soon, I want to run for miles—run for miles, and never tire. Over hills, down to the river, along both banks of this city I love. I want to run until I can’t, then lie out in the sun and melt into the ground.
I will always want to escape to Alaska—tip back on a snow drift, beneath the Aurora Borealis, and watch the lights pirouette through black sky. Then I’d go to Canada. Then Iceland. Then Norway, and on and on.
Meanwhile, I wake up and think, Is this really what I’m doing? Grand plans begin to percolate—until I remember the great truth that, wherever I go, there I’ll be, and the root of the problem is tied to my wrist.
I can dye my hair if I don’t like the color, but few things in life are so simple—how waiting seems fruitless. After all, if I wait long enough, my hair will darken even more, but that’s not the direction I want it to go.
There is no word for the ache that no longer throbs, but still begs to be healed. Sometimes, I stop myself—catch my reflection in the mirror and think, Would it have been different if I’d done it like this?