Follow Through

Patience is a weapon you tell me. You diagram waiting into the sand before us with a pointer finger and two rocks. We’ve got nothing but time. The sun sets. The darkness is articulated by phosphorescent insects, flitting about in unpredictable patterns. I can smell gasoline, chlorine, the swampy parts of a lake. I can hear my little bird somewhere out there extinguishing bugs like stars at the end of their term. Everything is catching up with us I worry. No you say all of this is different. We’re not making points. We’re just arguing. We’ve dug our heels in. We are sinking. Everything is inevitably absorbed into the landscape. The landscape is wholly accepting. It is a new kind of love. I realize then that we were not ready to be parents. We should have loved our creature like the landscape. I stand up to declare it. I pluck a cactus from the earth and wave it like a flag. You are digging in the sandy hole I’ve left, uncovering the smooth thigh of a teenager or a model.

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