Thursday, May 27, 2010

His Arms Are Heavy

Bow - 214 Words
Lindsey Thompson

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Every thought, every beginning, disappears like mist beneath a summer sky or cats into shadows. I grasp my necklace, create some empty phrases that appear as hollow as they feel, then erase them just as quickly from the page as I placed them. The summer weather is beginning to stick to my skin, and I can feel the south claiming me. The first lightning bugs will be out soon, and then I will forget about you.

It’ll be about four years, come next week, since that day we went to the park. The water glistened with the sun of July, and we sat on the grass as the wind pushed the blades and the waves across the surface of our world. The sun set, and we sat on a tree branch to watch it go, the tree’s arm bowed with the memories of other children and other sunset, other seats and other kisses that mirrored and rivaled our own.

That tree was cut down six months ago; the branch finally gave way under the weight of drunk teenagers, and one jack-ass got a broken arm. Truth be told, I was glad to see it go; I couldn’t see it but feel your breath next to me.

The Walk - Imogen Heap

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