10:30 in the morning, down under. Alexis Ffrench playing Wishing in the background with the whir of the washing machine, a little duet, if you will.
I am in bed, thinking of how far I’ve come. There were many pictures in my head before this. Like bread crumbs on an unfamiliar path in the woods. Some of the traces disappear, some get stuck in places where the animal of forgetting can’t seem to reach them.
The washing machine finishes with a sing-song.
Can you believe it?
Walking under the lamplit streets somewhere in QC, golden hues, blurry reds, past midnight, beer breaths, that song on your lips, a hand you can’t hold. A memory, or something you thought you had?
A little bread crumb on the path.
You were here.
We keep walking. Leave traces if we must. Or don’t. Find our way out of the woods.
Now, a clearing. Next to a man I hold hands with even when we sleep. So this is what it’s like. To get there. To make it out, alive.
No celebratory fireworks, champagne toasts, handshakes and enthusiastic pats on the back for a job well done.
It’s a day like this.
Sharing a quiet moment in a sunlit room with who you were, Yiruma gently playing in the background, watching the laundry dancing in the breeze, the sky above and around, a tender blue.
Little one, it is beautiful.
when running with scissors 