Old Endings

I don’t know why I keep looking at the photographs.

Every time, I put them away, up in the dust of the attic; and it’s stupid, because then I just have to climb up there and dig them out. Sit, amongst the dust and old sheets and dead furniture, just staring at them. Is it the happier times I’m remembering – that summer smile on your face, or your arms open wide inviting an embrace? Or is it the bitter, winter day when you stood in front of the window with the hail driving down behind you and told me you just can’t do this anymore?

“But it’s hailing outside.” That seemed to be the answer. Because how could you leave, since it meant going out into that?

But you did. I watched just how quickly the weather swallowed your tail-lights.

Memories: of the barbecue at Sal’s; of Christmas with Mum and Dad; that giant easter egg; Devil, that sweet little puppy that we oh-so would have kept if we could have; that little flat; that ragged, brightly-coloured garden. They shine out at me, and I lap them up, rehashing and reliving. But it all comes down to that same winter day, that same window, that same hailstorm.

“I just don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“But… but it’s hailing outside.”

It’s not. Haling outside. Not today. Through slits in the blinds, and coming up through the trapdoor from the kitchen, it isn’t hailing at all. It’s bright with sunshine, early with birdsong. And I hope you forgive me. I hope you understand why I take these photographs and seal them in an envelope, beginnings and endings and all. I slide them into a box and I tape the box shut. I make a brief promise to myself: I hope you understand why.

Then I bolt the trapdoor behind me as I head out into the morning sunshine.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work