Return
It is in the space in between that the stories grow. When he is far from her and there has been no call and she checks the time to map his day, or at least the shape she imagines it to be, she wonders whether he is thinking of her. Or whether, at the moment she contrives the scene, within it he is living, in warmth and love and harmony. She plots the conversation to arrange the party he will attend or the words on the way there and back, or those after a row or over supper or now. She has made a picture from clues and fear, shaded with a fragile faith and a need and hope that he will appear. She can smell him on her fingers and, with his words locked tight underneath her skin, she places blocks to build her life and leaves a space for him. In twists of strength and weakness questions loom large and loud: will you have a baby; will the noise die down? She sways, in the echo of the conversation, the one she stands outside, reciting his promise to keep it loud, remembering the pledge he made.
It is in the space in between that the stories grow, grow like beanstalks, twisting at your skin. And you can let them live there or not she thinks. And she sets her head down and runs.
