Creative Voices

By Sara Segat / Matthew staff || Edited by Marouso Pappa

I was doing the dishes when he came back. The ceramic tray Aunt Claire gifted me almost slipped from my hands in fright. “Careful not to break it,” she said when she cautiously gave it to me. It was a gift for my departure; anticipating a life that would fill me with wonder, or at least give me a taste of something different from the safety I had endured until then. I wish I had been as careful when I met him, but I wasn’t. I was so eager to pour every little drop of love I had hitherto scraped together into his cup, that I unconsciously let mine slip away. Eventually, my cup shattered. And I’ve been picking up the pieces ever since. 

I thought it was over, but he came back. He came back swiftly yet predictably, like the umpteenth incident on an already unfortunate day. A breeze of cold air came through the kitchen window, and I knew. I knew I’d taken the hit. I knew all about the storm coming down on me. I knew that now I’d have to soothe the stitches between the shatters. All over again. I cried, When does it end? 

He came back. Not to me per se, but to my mind. To my thoughts. To my eyes when they’re shut. To my hands running under cold water, hoping to get every remaining bit of him out of these aching cracks.