The children had decided that today would be the day that they climbed the cliff. They called it the ‘cliff’, but it was really more of a wall made of dark red clay, the ledge of which was a road that skirted the tropical forest beyond. The house where they were staying was at the base of this cliff, a vacation home their families had rented to spend the summer. Yesterday, their uncle had taught them how to shoot a gun by letting them take turn aiming at the cliff, standing behind them and wrapping their small hands around the grip, and his big hands over theirs, with his finger guiding theirs as they squeezed the trigger. He instructed them, “face forward, feet shoulder-width apart, both eyes open. Don’t flinch”. Their uncle was the only adult who treated them like more than children.
Jenny wakes, looking up at the ceiling. The space next to her in bed is empty, but unmade. Her husband got up hours earlier to help their daughter’s fiancé make the final arrangements to the big wooden canopy in the yard. Tomorrow was the big day, after all. Jenny gets up and grabs her house coat from the chair by the window. Outside, she sees the bare wooden structure with its four legs sticking straight up towards the sky, like a dead insect.
You sit in front of your crowded vanity, in your towel or most likely your ‘sexy’ red bathrobe. Although 90% of the products you are about to use can be found somewhere in the cacophony of concealers and eye shadow brushes, there will always be one product you need in a drawer it does not belong in.
Love is a thing that we put in the ground
and every kiss and compromise fed Love
and watered Love
Even though firm footing is hard found
Even when hope is the hard choice
Even if we are but
We were not "meant" to be together.
Fuck that notion.
I rage against the thought
That our love was, somehow,
Written in the stars.
Like the ffft of an arrow shot
Secondary to its sharp bite but
Startling and filled with life