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Sunday’s drip away so sweet. There is sunshine in the air on this March afternoon, and a breeze that says “it’ll be ok.” I’m not too sure I should listen to the voices on the wind anymore, though. They always tell you the opposite of the thing you’re not entirely sure you don’t want. Which is to say nothing.

When there’s nothing you fill in the blanks. But when there was something, and now there is not, your blanks become pre-ordained—become an echo. Sundays are a palimpsest—erasing something that once was, yet doing it in a way to leave it alive. I think of uncertainty on Sundays. Not because of its solace, but because of its impermanence. Nothing will last forever, not even that statement.

Marie leaves for a week tomorrow and I have been doing fucking awesome at not being a loaded piece of shit. This whole weekend was a final goodbye and for once I feel like I did it well. We talked hard truths, pleasant possibilities, and blanket nothings. So much of life is fluff designed to take the impact of reality. And Marie’s fluff is clouds shining so real in a post-rain sun you’re sure you’ve seen them before—in the oil paintings, in the throes of nostalgia, in her eyes.

This is the first time Marie will be gone from both Amelia and I for more than an evening and I don’t know how to feel. I care to feel, but I don’t mind how. This week is about peace, leave, and acceptance. This week is the page erased, the wind swept sky, the late post: here and there, lost but not forgotten.

I love you, Marie. Be safe



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