He told me not to worry about the number. Instead there were other theories, like the one in which we’re trees. Layers wrapped in layers. Folded or rolled or spun around. The younger years never left us, he said. They’re just tucked under every other. I liked this notion better. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for me to feel 17 again. 22 again. 24 again. A few words strung together at the right pace and length and there I was. Young and unraveled. Perhaps that’s why we hold on to things. For time travel, for masochism. To let a memory move us or hurt us again. To let it remind us why we left it behind in the first place. I read your letter over and over until the words were foggy. How far do you have to drill until the wound turns numb? Or is it better to patch up the pain with distractions? Long walks can fill the void. People work too. Pick one, pick a few. It’s okay if they never quite fit. Like a mal fitting shoe. You’ll feel the blister start to form. He’ll ask you if you want to go outside for a smoke. You don’t smoke. But you grab your lighter like you do. Light it up, pass it back and forth. Does a fleeting feeling feel even sweeter because we know it’s dissolving? Two cigarettes. Maybe four. I swallowed some of the smoke waiting for you to finish yours.
