And now, a snippet of something that’s been eating away at my brain for the last month:
Fog hangs low in the valley, hugging the hills and kissing the trees, while the corn whispers in the fields beyond. Birds perch warily on the power lines, watching, waiting, and even the crickets have ceased their singing. The air is thick with anticipation, as if every living thing is holding its breath.
Such mornings are not uncommon as summer gives way to fall, but something is different this morning. This is an uncommon morning.
The words of an old song drift through my head as I slice through the fog with my high beams. La nuit m’a oubliée…Pourtant…je suis toujours là…Je suis toujours là…
The night may have forgotten, but I certainly haven’t, I think as I pass his house. I keep my eyes on the road, trying to forget the way he used to hug me, the kisses that used to linger on my skin long into the night after he’d gone. But it’s no use.
I can’t forget, though I would dearly like to.
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