We used to spend our nights watching a movie or a play, listening to books or music. We would sit beside each other—on the hotel bed, the seat of a car, the couch in our old apartment—for hours. I would sew a button onto her shirt, stitch pleats into a skirt made of an old bed sheet, or repair rips in our favorite garments. Every time I pricked my finger she made she I was okay and when I ran out of thread she always rushed to the store for me. Sometimes, if I was bored or had extra time, I would embroider small messages or symbols into our clothes. These pieces of fabric held every moment of our story.
Cam would rest next to me, using me for support as her body collapsed. And her arm would never be still because while at night she would write, and write, and write. I don't know most of what went into the piles of composition notebooks she had. Probably collections of lists, random facts, mismatched thoughts, but maybe poetry or stories too, drawings, inane rambling.
It's hard to admit that I'll never know.
That I'll never sit with her again while the stars stand guard.
That I'll never have the courage to go back to the places she buried filled notebooks.
That I'll never completely remember this lost time.
YOU ARE READING
The Perspective of a Blackbird
General FictionMia has been traveling for 3 years, running away from her memories. She's lived off the barest supplies but has enjoyed every minute of the facades, adventures, and creativity. So when she's called back to her dreaded family house, she's not eager...
