black lamb

“I remember the jeans I was wearing the afternoon you bruised my heart. How I could peer over my denim hearted knees into the watery oblivion just feet below my dangling laces. I remember your honestly ambiguous words and I wondered if even you knew what your mouth was saying. How that fisherman’s hairy forearm could have canvassed an anchor or at least an “I love Mom” tattoo, but it didn’t. I remember the sky growing darker as you attached a feathered lure to my heart, plopped it into the ocean and fumbled to grab the reel carelessly propped at the edge of the pier. How easily it fell over and how lazily you watched it fall! I remember how you said I could push you in, the same way you did to me, but different. How I haven’t quite taken you up on that yet. I remember you said something about your dad dying, how you needed time to figure life out. I remember that I promised to wait. How you didn’t want me to. I remember asking to hold your hand before we left. How homesick I felt that night. I remember feeling sorry for myself; refusing forgiveness. ‘How he deserves it!’ I thought. I remember walking around Florida in one afternoon, kissing every piece I ever cursed. How much of life I have taken for granted. I remember noticing someone new for the first time in a long time. How hopefull a heart half-healed can be.”