Umbra
I threw away all the photographs of us together. All but this one.
"We can split the photos," she said. "You can keep them," I told her. But she left half of them anyway. I suppose she thought she was being kind. I suppose she thought I'd want to look at us together when we were happy. Does an amputee want to look at photographs of his healthy leg before it became gangrenous? No, he just wants the stump to heal, he just wants it to stop leaking pus.
I threw the photographs away. But I kept this one. I can look at our shadows together. This is what I see every day now, the absence of her. The space she's left behind. A flat and faceless form created because she blocked out the sun.
posted by greg @ 4:46 PM
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