So few memories have been written with absolute clarity. Most are faint odours, the lingering fragrance of blooms with bowed heads. The exceptions are all of you; moments carved into my bones, woven between synapses in colours as brilliant as the first day they were painted, rich with the layered scents of blossoms in full pride.
I was folding laundry and noticed the hand prints stamped in mud; the towels had hung at just the right height for you to wipe your hands on them having no regard for the effort I’d taken to wash them. I felt the frustration boil in my belly as I turned and stormed outside to find you. On the doorstep I saw you crouched over your sin and with thunder on my brow and lightning on my lips I opened my mouth to unleash a scolding storm.
You flashed a grin that halted a…
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