At some point we must begin to make decisions for our future, however distant it may seem. Our history is written and rewritten, our truths become half-truths, and then myths… legends. The people who might disarm us, old, forgiven. The stories no longer pull at our sleeves or bite at our heels, needing to be told. We move on.
It becomes easier and we become careful. We build up houses on firm foundations and fill all the rooms with light. Pictures on the walls, matching plates, a broom. We say “I love you” with a different resonance, the words filling our mouths like nothing we’ve ever held between our teeth before. Yes, yes, sometimes we fight loudly and a dish shatters, but, that’s what the broom is for. And, later, there is a tenderness between sheets and fingertips that no one knows, that we dream of fitfully, tangled.
Eventually, we build up fortresses that need no defending. That encompass it all.
So, here you come with your pitchforks. Forgive me if I laugh a little too long, a little too brusquely. You just look like ants in a line from here, picking at crumbs.