MarSan

Mexico

Won't you tell us a story?

Avatar is by me.

/Inactive/
You can find me in Prose.

Message from Writer

They/Them

To my dearest, my hurting, my healing Pecan tree.

November 11, 2019

FREE WRITING

4

Oh, you caught me off-guard the other day. With your long limbs rattling around my house, and that hair. Hair of sweet cornbread with caramel, hair of Mississippi nostalgia. I'm not ready to face the day each night, much less face the string of messages I don't answer to anymore. That, and I was also in my pajamas. Definitely not the most proper way to meet up with your past, but I guess it goes like that most of the time. 

I must confess, my loneliest, that I've only included you in my scraps for writings once. And I have never bred you a name either. This is then, the first time I get to reach out to you. This is the very first time I'll call your name, Pecan tree. It didn't take me long to come up with it, and that wasn't a surprise either. You're neat, precise in the ways you stretch, wide in the adjectives that fit you, straight-forward with yourself. There's no place where I could get lost, no loose threads to tangle with. Your name would be either Pecan Tree or Sun. And even I have gotten tired of meddling with the latter. About your real name, it would break me to pepper it in a flimsy poem. 

Now, getting introductions out of the way, I must tell you, my bravest, that I didn't expect to see you until much later on. Perhaps I didn't expect to see you again at all. I've been holding onto the concept of future so hard, I'm afraid I broke it and haven't even bothered to wash the blood off my hands. The distorted shards now tell me that in a few months, I'll cease to exist, and so will everyone I know. Someone else will take my place, but it's none of my business who will. So forgive me for being all wistful and boring on you, but I realized that perhaps I don't want to lose you. Blow out your flame, cut out your words, call it what you will. In the end, I just don't want to lose you.

I've tried to, lose you I mean. But erasing eight years is easier said than done. It's easier when you don't have to reach down to hold me in scarecrow arms. Easier when you don't do that smile and tell me "We should hang out more often,". Especially easier when you don't burst out in that laughter of autumn crisp, of long hoodies, of cornbread hair, of volleyball practices, of letters by my windowsill. Damn your laughter of boring books, of canned coke, of freezing blankets, of ohgodican'tleaveyou, of pleasedon'tbekind, of iloveyoumore. 

My kindest, my loveliest, my lost Pecan Tree, yes I would love to hang out more often. I would love to hang onto your every word. I would love to see you as strong and sturdy as you've grown, paint you in colors you've never seen before. I'd love to get to meet you again, hear about every new person in your life, and fit once again inside your chicken heart. I'd even love to bawl my eyes out in a few months, get to lose you for real this time. Pecan Tree, I hope I get to see you again. I wish you the world if I don't. 

 

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  • November 11, 2019 - 8:22pm (Now Viewing)

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