Ashes of Your Cares

Sifting through the ashes of your cares, I find chips of stone. Hidden from me all these years, I turn them over in my palm, feeling their weight. I am not surprised to find them. That behind the face you wore these stones were tucked away where their blunt edges could not come in contact with another is something you alluded to more than once. I didn't understand then. That's my problem--I never understand until it no longer matters. I always need it spelled out.

I would never have survived Europe. I guess it's good we didn't go.

You were never one for seasons. These things are not meant to be categorized, you said, put in little boxes so we can make vague associations. All that matters is what the weather was five minutes ago, is at this exact moment, and will be five minutes from now. Well, it's raining right now and there is a bit of a breeze. These things are common year-round so maybe you were right about the seasons. It's not worth dwelling on. In the end, you burned them like you burned everything else. Ash soaked by rain is nothing more than gritty mud.

Europe didn't happen. There was the taste of glue in my mouth and the flat tire. There was the desperate call I made from the side of the road. The one you didn't answer. Not that you were under any obligation to answer. You said you were working from home that day but I know things can happen. You might take a walk and not bring your phone because you don't want to be interrupted. You might make a quick run to the store and forget your phone. It was good you did not answer, because it was wrong for me to be desperate for guidance. There were options available to me: roadside assistance. Change the tire myself. Call the auto insurance company. I was ashamed that I didn't know what to do and that's why I called you--my safe harbor, my vulnerable space. All I needed to do was choose one of the options and handle the situation myself. When I couldn't get a hold of you, I was forced to do just that.

I did. And it was fine. I was home with a repaired tire two hours later.

An autumn afternoon but it might as well have been winter. A stone monument sitting on the kitchen table. I cut myself on rock I failed to climb. I wasn't supposed to be there, reaching for handholds. I wasn't supposed to see your phone laying at the base. I wasn't supposed to feel the elemental rumble, the shifting of the air surrounding us.

So I turned my back. I thought it the honorable thing to do. In this, like so many things, I was wrong. I failed. Around me the house began to burn and I was powerless to stop it. I dashed through the burning door to my car with the freshly repaired tire. I drove, thinking: the rain will put the fire out. The rain will melt the stone.

Water doesn't melt stone.

I have now returned home to the ashes of your cares, the chips of stone still warm, with edges sharp enough to cut. It's a funny how you can finally understand something, when it no longer does you any good. I no longer taste glue in my mouth. Instead my tongue twists around the grit of wet ash. There's no point in me staying here. I've ended up a stranger. Before I leave I smear ash across my forehead, mocking my slowness, my stupidity.

I wonder how you'll find Europe. I hope it is everything you dreamed it to be.

There's just enough gas left for me.

--Thank you Aerial Ruin for the title inspiration