I still have the pic she sent of her mixing drinks at her father’s party, when she had to travel north, telling me she would not see me again for a while, and all I wanted at that time when I saw that picture was to be there with her, leaning close as she stirred up the ingredients as if a witch’s brew I did not need to imbibe to fell intoxicated, and how much later I sent her a text wishing her a happy birthday, as the whole world changed, collapsing in on itself like a black hole, and how I felt the need to run and hide from the mob she set loose, their torches and pitchforks full of vengeance, and now, years later, I think of those two moments as bookends, my brain bouncing back and forth between the two extremes, the good memory side by side with a bad one, though after the second she seemed to show mercy on me, aware that I was up to my neck in quicksand, and how I should not fight the inevitable, the more I struggled the faster I would sink, when even now I know, I’ll still way over my head, but wise enough not to send any more birthday wishes.
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