She thought about him a lot. She still does, really. She asks herself constantly...Why had she once "held out" when she should have been "holding on?" She whispers these thoughts in prayers at night, her eyes closed tighter than the pores in the sidewalk. Tears saturating the concrete and inching down her cheek like miniscule pools of blood from a paper cut. Mixed with mascara, it stains her skin only to leave a hint of regret. "Well," she thought as she sleepily stares at the shale remnants in the mirror upon waking, "I'm glad no one will see these but me." She wipes them away with her sleeve and tip toes into the shower.
A picture, a comment, a string of familiar melodies. She swallows hard at each and every one. Suddenly, a memory dances on the rain-soaked windowsill. A mix tape from their first dance. At the time, it seemed dismissive- a silly high school crush that entertained the thought of being cared for by the opposite sex. "Oh," she thought, "this'll pass and he'll see I'm no good for him."
A wooden trinket box, carved by hand. Delicate and precise down to the brass hinges that were silent when she opened the top. "Happy Birthday" he said, and she smiled. "Do you like it?" She shut the lid and placed it beside her on the couch, not noticing the hand carved ridges, detailed intricacies he'd included for her to notice. It truly was remarkable, but at the time, her eyes glazed over with boredom- only making it seem mundane. "Thank you, I love it," she said then. Only now, as she cradles it in her lap five years later tracing the rim where his fingers once carved, she finally means those words once on her lips.
She steps on a folding ladder, hovering over the hardwood in her closet. It's moving day and she tosses the last remaining hangers in the dirty clothes bin to be carried to the car. She was scared and nervous- she called him the night before. His words were the ones she needed.
"Hey stranger!"
"Hey there. How are you?" He sounded strong, independent.
"I'm good. Moving in the morning." A slight pause. He didn't notice.
"Oh that's right! You excited?"
"Absolutely! I'm just ready to move on with my life. Do something diff..." She was cut off, before her lie solidified, by the tiny click of an incoming call.
"Sorry, I have to go! I'll call you back." *click*
"bye" she said to the wall. He never called.
She throws the remaining bags and crates of mismatched socks and yearbooks into the back of her car. Her parents step out onto the lawn with a pink container made of transparent plastic. "Don't you want this?" they ask her with outstretched arms. She takes it as her heart clenches tighter than fists. A pile of college denial letters, two certificates for athletic excellence, and a wooden umbrella taken from atop her great grandmother's dresser. She nods and tucks it under her right arm. She looks down at its side. And there it lay, once made of wet malleable clay. Now a snowman painted by the innocent hands of a child lost in the clutches of infatuation. White body, a purple scarf, tiny black eyes no bigger than the tip of a ball point pen. A smile etched in, just as thin, rested below an orange triangle nose.
She unclasps the lid and pinches the snowman. Turning it over in her fingers, she reveals a heart scraped in the back- its identity. She places it in her right pocket. It will gather heat from her thighs through her jeans and remind her of how love never grows cold if you feed it, even if you initially neglect it. Her mom kisses her goodbye, her dad hugs her tight. A familiar quote emerges from her subconscious... "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both." She climbs in the drivers seat and turns through her collection of discs accuulated through her adolescence. Only to retrieve the mix tape as she shifts the car in drive.
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