Written in the Hours Between

I keep coming across random memories scrawled

in books all over my house drunk, disorderly

ramblings, of childhood traumas and imagined slights.

 

Every time I turn over a scrap of paper,

I find the first half of a story about my

favorite cat (she died of lung cancer when I was

 

4) my first husband (he came out of the closet

and left when I was 25) my newborn son

(struggling for breath in an incubator when he

 

was 1-day-old) how much I wanted to break

things off with Husband #2 one year before

we were married. Who is this person leaving their

 

life lying around for all the wrong people to

read?

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