journal entry from 1977, after I had been in a car accident and couldn't walk for six months, with slight modifications made to preserve anonymity, but dedicated to the jerk who got away
Such promises we make in our youth, when we thought we were in love.
So I counted on you, one finger on you, two fingers on you, three fingers on you, four fingers on you....perhaps that is not what you meant. Perhaps countless cold dinners left uneaten doesn't matter.
you, me, forever
Perhaps I mean you don't matter. No, you do.
Perhaps I mean I don't matter.
Perhaps I think that I don't matter enough to you.
Yes, that's what I think.
And I wonder what you're doing tonight and if I should ask someone else to take my daughter to daycare in the morning.
And I wonder what you really expect from you and me.
And I wonder why I'm scared of thunder and the dark, without you,
why you aren't calling me and whether I should go downstairs to lock the door against the bad guys.
And I wonder what I really expect from you and me and why you said I should consider getting sterilized.
So I watch the clock with the numbers that keep changing in silence and the side of the bed you're not on and it's the not-knowing the truth that bothers me.
I put chestnuts we picked together in a yellow bowl and consider why I let chestnuts mean so much. I counted them, in case you were wondering, and there are thirty four.