Ina Scot

Letting Go

I wake up early next to him. Our last day in Santa Fe hangs before me, shrouded by the inevitable ending. Sadness meanders through the spaces between my cells, leaving a trail of longing where it passes. A week goes by too quickly here, like water gushing from a drinking fountain with so much force that your lips feel the water rush past, but you cannot take enough into your mouth for a swallow. I am afraid that when I leave this space and time, its glory will rush past like water, deposit a light film, quickly evaporate, leave me dry. I sneak into the living room to let him sleep, wanting to wrap myself in our closeness from a distance. Inching the door open, cool air licks at my feet, hidden birds sing the world awake and I think of last night’s dinner: poblano chiles filled with shrimp, covered with red sauce, chunks of pepper jack cheese, roasted in an oven full of love. Beyond the door, a dry creek bed meanders out of sight taking a little of me with it. I know a perfect week cannot be preserved any more than a trophy fish hung on the wall can swim away or a pickled cucumber can retain the taste of summer. Still, I ask my experiences to come with me for a while, promising to bring them back soon.

sparrow nest in the eaves
eggs become birds
made to fly away