Diary - February 20
I was thinking about how you just appeared last night. You really scared me. You sat in your car in the drive and I wondered how long you would stay. Were you remembering the quiet evening dinners? The movies we watched last winter?
And then you came inside and packed your things. I couldn't stop you. I don't think anyone could have stopped you.
I tried talking, but you didn't hear a thing.
You left. But I know you'll be back.
Diary - February 21
Remember our first day? You said you were so glad to be out of the city, and you had plans for the garden. You painted the back porch. You loved the open space. A person could live here forever...you said pruning the trees in the orchard. And to me you were everything.
Then you met her.
At first, I thought you were working late. Everyone does sometimes. The house was damp and the dim lights in the hall were all that I could get to stay on. But I saw you with her in the dark. Some bar or hotel room. It doesn’t matter now.
Here in this empty house the darkness is cold. The silence is deafening.
Diary - February 22
I’ve been thinking about just how far I might have to go to get you back. Would you change your mind?
There was a mist in the trees this morning. At daybreak the air was sullen.
Someone covered the furniture with sheets again.
Diary – February 23
I hear a door creaking. Is that you? Did you forget your wallet? Your coat? Did you leave your love behind?
You're mine.
And I said you'd be back.
And I said you'd be back.
©
2019 Jan Darrow
Photo:
pixabay
