on those dark days, when death seemed to well up all around touching edges, she had all she could do to keep from crying. counting backard in her mind.. the lost time, the missed aquantance, the way things from the past resonated as she touched them. the tiny cracks in old wood, and all of the spaces in between, reminding her of then time before this time. a time in which she was younger- felt stronger, and altogether had a greater time of it. when rand was still her and they were still pushing towards something. the way it rolled in waves in her mind. like riding home in the back seat last night, trying not to fall asleep..preforming all of her small tortures. going over and over what could have been different- what could have been easy, made more sense..made her happy(made happiness last).
and it wasn’t a list of big things,,,it wasn’t like you’d expect..finish college exercises, do waht you love..it was more the minute of everyday and all of the days that had pseed rushing below her like the passamaquatee river. like striaghten up, call back the man who loves you, return your sisters email so she knows you are still out there somewhere..send the gift..the one that has been sititing on your bedside table packaged up and ready to get on its way. send it beacaue if you don’t the tiny hopes have welled up just to die here in the dusty apartment, wrestled away in the all too often changed bed..amoung piles of clothes you knew you’d never wear.
do it. send it, and you never did. and moving out now with your dad driving in the front seat you still cannot rest beacuse you never did. and you feel the soft edges of the padded envelope and you feel the way you preessed letters hard trying to make your handwritting look the way you remember your moms being. and you peel back the stamp marked 25 cents and let it fall softly onto the floor of the car, roll over and chase beads of water collecting on the winow.