March 2, 2015
I didn't intend on spending the night in the bus station. But then again, I haven't intended much of my life.
The old man from Canada who planted himself across from me at 3:20 is still talking. I catch bits and pieces, phrases that, put together, might mean something. To someone who cared. Beekeeper... 1000 hives... not so much fun anymore...drove a bus... RCMP...kids have it tough these days... I try to look sleepy, busy, preoccupied, but nothing works. Apparently, he needs to talk. I do too. But not to him. To you.
I want to tell you all the things I never could. The whys and the rationalizations and the fears that both paralyzed and compelled me. I want to explain it all to you, because then maybe I could understand it myself. Here's all I can tell you right now.
I hate myself more than you possibly could.
And I love you more than that.
And that's why I had to do it.
YOU ARE READING
An Indirect Sign of Light
Ficción históricaSpanning four generations, this family saga centers around Izzy, a young girl whose mother has disappeared into a fog of secrets, shame, and regret birthed generations ago by her broken-hearted great-grandfather, Joseph, who would go to any lengths...
