Thursday of Last Year

Shove, shove, shove.
It feels like shoveling, but my cement solid thoughts are incomparable to the lucid nature of snow. Yet, the way they collaborate, combine, and collect my attention as they tumble around precisely replicates the snowball effect.
I am swatting all of the alluring memories that are there like minute dust particles in the air. Yet, no cuts are made while ties remain strong, while my heart begins to bond.
And we saw it in the way Mr. remained seated in his car, buckle still fastened, long after the engine died down. In the way Ms. walked away from her mug, allowing the herbs to boil, burn, and infuse their flavor. We must detach ourselves to understand the logic behind it. However, feelings are a matter of the heart; if they say matter can not be created or destroyed, perhaps there is no way to dismantle this inner commotion. No plausible way because all of it has choked the roots of my wits from the start. And although my mind sped ahead long before they announced, “go!” my feelings are lagging behind. Tripping me with thoughts of, what if?
What if what?

Published by Anna Buck

"everything was beautiful and nothing hurt."

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