The Slides Align

I’ve ignored the signs for a while now; a little snow by a gutter in August, the path by the garage that is not there now, the crow in the old ash every day and this morning a letter. Plain brown envelope, my hand writing, empty.

            The slides are falling together again. I’ve resisted it before now but there’s too many. The stars aren’t there behind the clouds. There’s this jumper of mine. It’s green, stripy, hand knitted and I’ve not seen it in years. And it’s in my wardrobe. There’s no way around it, the slide are aligning and too many and I can’t resist. I hope I walk it, I hate waking up and things have gone. And I hope, more than that, beg if you will that my daughters remain.

            There’s this fire in me, this bright and pure light that is my children. My youngest loves me, but my eldest needs me. She’s not quite right, but with me we can turn the world so that all else is twisted, not us. I’m finding the keys and ignoring the locks. Days tick by and I can see to the end of the year but the next is cigarette smoke by an open window.

            I don’t know where I’ll be. I’ll be me, and perhaps years before and knowing where I’ve been will fade, a conversation reminded of but not recalled, only puzzled at. The slides turn about us, all things turn liquid. I’ve retrod the last five years, the same each year, day on day but that year’s grown too thin.

            The slides align and they’ve found me.

            I don’t how long I’ll be here. I don’t know if there’ll be a... this.

            All that we have woven now frays.