Absence

I left the keys in my car and wanted to hear you say it’s okay to make the same mistake four times and laugh. But I called him instead. He told me I’m careless, and he can’t believe I’ve done this again. I said, I know, I understand. But he kept talking. He kept reminding me I’ve failed.

There’s an antique lamp on my desk with a golden angel looking down. She’s lost something she won’t find. I stare at her as the sun waltzes with my blinds. The edges of old notes of my faults and fears are stained with black coffee. No sugar. The bitter, the better.

He comes home and asks why I’m hunched over with a pencil eraser in my mouth. Germs, he tells me. Pencils carry germs. Sitting that way isn’t good for my back. I need to get up. I need to be doing something. I am, I tell him. I’m thinking.

I pull out the silver cross with the rose gold center you gave me. God’s gentle, you told me. The world is full of chaos, I said. But I still pray because He listens and gives me the space to be vulnerable …