no answer/five years

hi, it's ________. i can't come to the phone right now. leave a message and i'll call you back.

she thinks of a sound that someone might not have heard before. she clears her throat and tries to speak slowly and lucidly.

hey. i don't know where you are, or what you're doing. i wanted to wish you a happy five years.

the marks of each year fell out of her handbag: tiny azure-purple dots, each the size of a pinhead; long swabs; mulch; sky-blue candies; a seam ripper; long forgotten keys. most of these things no longer mattered or had a use.

it's hard to help celebrate the future when the present seems uncertain.

she remembered the terror of getting it wrong. all of it. her words, her actions, her ability to care. she didn't know how to, she thought, and read every last attachment she was forwarded.

i just want you to know we really do care about you, but this is for the best.

there would be not much to celebrate in five years' time, she thought, as the contents of her bag clattered on the tile. she told herself that she saw little things to rally around. small victories leading to learned, constructive selflessness: a panoptic heart.

it's hard to look away. this is no longer my garden.

she was trying to figure out a way to close that tired eye. she stopped looking for patterns and puzzles that would let her get it right. she stopped worrying about getting it wrong because there were too many chances to get it right just slipping from her grasp.

she thinks of someone experiencing the shortest day for the first time, tasting raspberries for the first time, seeing the water for the first time. she remembers how it feels not to answer because you're so in the thick of it that you lose all language.

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note: work in progress
lastmod: 2025-09-22

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