| I needed, for months after he died, to remember our rooms— some lit by the trivial, others ample with an obscurity that comforted us: it hid our own darkness. So for months, duteous, I remembered: rooms where friends lingered, rooms with our beds, with our books, rooms with curtains I sewed from bright cottons. I remembered tables of laughter, a chipped bowl in early light, black branches by a window, bowing toward night, & those rooms, too, in which we came together to be away from all. And sometimes from ourselves: I remembered that, also. But tonight—as I stand in the doorway to his room & stare at dusk settled there— what I remember best is how, to throw my arms around his neck, I needed to stand on the tip of my toes. Copyright © 2015 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Used with permission of the author. |
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