Beneath the two big oak trees on the hill looking up at the beautiful gnarled mess wondering out loud about how many miles of roots we stood above.
Being an insomniac, I’ve spent my whole life being tired, but I’ve never felt more tired than when I was slipping between the fingers of others or trying my best not to fit the molds they formed with someone else. I hate the idea of becoming the sum of someone else’s parts so I often have to love the parts of me that have started to turn stale, hoping I haven’t let them sour me. I was thinking hard about all the unimportant first impressions I’ve ever had to make. How easily forgettable people can be, and how I, like everyone, find myself slipping between fingers too. Sometimes, I crave that feeling.
I’ve struggled awhile now with my own foundations. A long time ago, someone I loved told me that I was an old home with squeaky floors. When I was younger, I thought love was red bows around fingers or names carved in trees, but now I know that it’s tangled roots, knotted veins.
I’ll always remember you for the way your lips brushed up against my cheek when you whispered to me for the first time. When someone says your name, that’s the memory that’ll play in my head, but I also get to hold onto so much more: like the early breakfasts at sunrise with hands clasped or the hide and seek grass stains from the orchard or the long walks from the bar to your home breathing cold air or the night by the lake or the fire we shared. I cave at the thought of ever having to forget a single thing, so I replay these memories over in my head, hoping that these are the parts that people see of me.
Left to myself, I’d become stale –I know this– and that’s exactly why the best part of this tangled mess of memories is this: we’re not yet finished growing together.