A laugh with her brother, a hug from an ex. I'm with Canada. And Florida. A missed call from across the street, a text from London. I can't be where I want to be, and can't keep up with where I'm called. I heard a song telling me the thing about the rain is the way it falls, and I hit repeat.
I touch my arm, discover the nerves and the gaps.
The stitches came out today, all of them. I cried, a little, as the threads were pulled from my skin. She said to look out the window but I had to focus on the blue line being weaved from my arm. I had to breathe in from my nose, out from my mouth, but still I wanted to watch.
Rub cocoa butter on your arm, twice a day for twenty minutes.
If only all therapy were as sweet.
I'm driving in a mist, clouded and heavy. Home should be safe, but for the messages and the email. If not for a gem, I'd have quit. He says she reminds him of his Hemingway dreams. He's hard living, drinking, smoking, fishing, hunting and traveling to follow his pursuits. He says there always seems to be more to experience, more conversations that need to take place.
I hang on his words, more to experience and conversations to take place.
Isn't that why we all move forward? Isn't that one of the things that drives us?
I'm as lost as I ever was; as found as I've ever been. But he is right, there are more conversations, more experiences. More blue to be pulled from the skin.
3 comments:
I'm a little depressed this morning and didn't sleep well, so my thoughts are jumbled. And, I'm conscious of being observed, whether true or not, so my fingers hesitate to type my feelings on the keyboard.
I wish I knew more people like that, who had Hemingway dreams. I don't really dream anymore and I miss it. I hope your arm heals well.
i missed something. what happened to your arm, alison?
To more conversations yet to be had. We'll try and keep the blue out of them tomorrow other than acknowledge their presence or however you spell that word.
Where's spell check when you need it?
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