I keep track on a calendar of every day that I cry. Slash marks on the wall, a record of how long my heart kept its promise to care.
I was fourteen and a child when a boy with green eyes shot himself in the head. I remember standing in a bookstore on wobbly legs and wondering how long it would take. How long til I was like those people in armchairs & cafe seats: breathing, numb, reading a magazine. As though anything in the world could ever matter again.
When it comes down to it, I don’t want my heart to mend. This is my life’s work: this holding-on, this never-stopping, this learning how to fold up my love small&tight, held between my fingers in my pocket like the smoothest stone.
There’s so little in this world that means anything at all. Must we give it up so quickly?