That alley where I skinned my knee when I was eight years old.
That movie theater where I had my first kiss at the age of fifteen.
That twin-sized mattress that I slept on from five to twenty-one.
That car from the 90s, which carried me to school, to ballet class, to sleepovers with best friends.
That perfectly suited branch in the tree in my backyard, where I spent hours reading and dreaming.
That street, the main street, that I could drive with my eyes closed and make it home in one piece.
That (or those) pairs of arms that will always give me comfort.
That stoplight, on the corner of everything I hold near and dear.
That place, that will always bring me back, that will always be a reminder of my once, future, always, home.
About the Creator
Sarah Ward
I'm a writer of poetry, short stories, longer stories, and blog posts on winewithwordsward.com. I've loved the magic of words for as long as I can remember, and sharing my perspective on the world through words is my ultimate goal.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova5 days ago in Poets
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