She wanted to talk about everything. Wanted to talk about the way the world moves and why people leave each other and why other people stay in love. and in General what happened to us. Like us meant I, and I meant We. And what really I meant, was I have to go. But we kept on talking and I felt the splinters of the picnic table in my thighs and I felt the sun burning the back of my neck. And I wanted to pretend like her lips were candy colored because it made me listen more. It’s not much more than kitchen counter tops and legs. And where would we be without any of those parts, and the parts that make parts, and the other parts? I started dissecting her movements and mannerism, dismantled her limb by limb, shook them out looking for spare change. What we all started to learn was that the sum of the parts does not always, and sometimes never will, equal the whole. What it boiled down to was how could all the elements be there but it still not be right? When I tried to reassemble her she looked like a disfigured version of her old self. And you know what that told me? You can never go back.


One Reply to “chopshop”

  1. I read all your stories. There’s so much to love … A part of me wants your whole blog bound and in hard copy to thumb through with a hot tea on our party patio … just sayin

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