That purse still hangs by a ribbon on my bed post. Its broken zipper rendered it useless.
Its zipper broken that morning. I stuffed my things, left on the floor from the night before, into that purse.
You were lovely. Offering to make me coffee and eggs.
I was rushed, confused, and trying not to be hopeful. I didn't tell you. In my haste, the zipper broke. You walked me out, kissed me farewell, as I clutched the purse close. I wanted to/didn't want to leave.
You were lovely. I didn't tell you.
That purse hangs on my bed post.
6 comments:
This brought tears to my eyes. You are such a tremendous writer.
b
On many levels, I am sad for you.
It's the loss of the purse that makes you sad, yes?
eh, lessons to be learned in every story. I was listening to NPR the other day. not sure who they were interviewing -- john prine, perhaps. npr asked, would you do it differently if you had the chance to do it over again?
the john-prine-y-sounding person responded, well, of course there are always things I would have done differently. but I think the part that scares me the most is that, even if given the chance to do something over again, we would do the exact same thing. and I'm not sure I could handle re-living that moment(s) again.
and on reading that quote, it's more gloomy than it sounds. thought you both might appreciate it.
Oops. I was logged into El's account.
Send it to me, and I will (try to) fix it.
coming your way! that'd be great.
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