lights flash over water, red like cell towers only lower, laid flat. we look through splattered window, crane our necks around turns. it isn’t water, only a sea of grass. once we’ve gone and returned, passed without comment, confusion roils. something is said but what. between, i stood over water, wondered how cold the drop would be should i let go of my body and fall. i clutched the ground as if it might slip out from under me. i felt muscle strain in his shoulder as he lifted me from rocks of shore back onto solid ground. holding him just like i held the earth, so scared of my body supporting itself. fear, such a troublesome thing, leading down corridors until you enter a room with no way out, no way of remembering how you made your way in. i trembled under light, held my head, wanted flame in place of spark, wanted dark where there was so much to see. i let wind carry me, sound of water guiding me. distance of a step, maybe two, difference between water and whispering leaves. how can i make you hear it? crickets dampened, waves raised their voices. air stilled and then drew me nearer water once more. all of it so near a dream i waited to wake but took too long and had to return.

in ten days we will gather to remember a man we abandoned largely out of need. two months and three days will have passed, by my best count.

memories are contained only when written. so i have mostly forgotten. this is a gift i’ve given myself.

in may of another year, i woke before the sun, lay restless then crawled to the kitchen to make too-sweet coffee, poured unsweetened cream. the door creaked as i let myself out, all bodies left in the cabin asleep. sun crawled over the trees, across the water, to my feet, where it rested as something called dawn.

in october of this year, i drove nine hours turned eleven after a single wrong turn. i lay in the same bed that held me seven years ago, pushed the striped sheets to the side and covered in new blue. woke to light pushing stubbornly through my mask, warming my eyes. the sun crawled over the trees, across the dead grass, to the shattered glass window, where it rested as something called dawn.

what i was once called, he chose. i discarded. i chose for myself, careless. i discarded. i’ve arrived at a letter turned animal turned a syllable he’s never heard. i named this freedom when i meant escape.

there will be no hole in the ground, the remainder of what was once living will be homed too close to bear.

and what is there to do but bear it.

there will be no viewing but i’ve seen more than i wanted. and what to do but turn away? or shut my eyes only for them to open once more.

the almost here is that he was alone. once, i was his. for the longest time, i wasn’t. all that’s left of him is what he passed on. i am now stuck in the almost of being free. of having once escaped and now? not quite trapped, but something approaching.