the universe

It’s been ten years since we walked out together. We’ve never seen the other in a body that’s aged before. Usually we end it no later than thirty.

I count your grey hairs while you sleep and trace my fingers along the veins on the back of your hands.

Next life, this time, our child will be seventeen by now. And she will teach us all the things we’ve been waiting to learn.

Isn’t it funny, we used to think we knew it all.

Life in the country isn’t anything like New York City and we miss it sometimes. You miss the attention of strangers, I miss the simplicity of being nothing more than just that.

“Do you still feel angry?” you ask one evening as we watch the sun dip into a canvas of green. There’s a swing on the front porch like you always promised me we’d have one day.

My eyes tear a bit, but I won’t accept that as crying. And you won’t make it into an issue.

Because you love me as much as I love you. So instead of asking anything else, you reach for my glass of water and sip from it.

We always drink from the same glass. We only keep one in the cupboard.

“I hope she has your eyes,” you tell me.

And I decide to write it all down.

Because I want her to know everything.