I never have more than five minutes to write. If there were more minutes there would be more pages. Forgetting more than remembering.
My feet ache with two miles walked under heavy bags, with the feeling of concrete next to damp grass. I pulled out my old t-shirt from university, spread it out carefully, and sat on it with my new jeans on. No point in grass stains. The sun stained my skin and warmed my cold toes and reminded me of sitting in the sun with you (in the stars with you), across the world.
Three children ran in the water, with shrieks and splashing. Parents were only slightly dismayed, and mostly amused.
I don’t know where these words are going anymore.
We will tell stories, someday, about how each cup of coffee turned into long evenings with cookies and smiles. Our little words will grow into bigger words, and every person will have a place in my home. We will travel across the world to spend precious days and sing into the sky. All of us will have memories and whispers and real things like libraries, ballet lessons, family dinners, scuba diving, prayer, song, building forts out of sheets, working on a masterpiece, ice cream, exploring the world, warm blankets and hot chocolate.
Our little victories will be celebrated, and our tragedies wrapped in soft white paper and gently laid to rest. Letters and post cards will trot happily to their new owners. There is maybe an infinite number of these hearts that I am holding, and you have pieces of mine nestled softly in the corners of yours. All of you.