Thursday in December, Maybe Six Years Ago (I’m Not Counting)

Photo by Jennifer Prewitt

By Jennifer Prewitt

On the hill I realized I was grossly underdressed. Wind blown snow giving cold kisses on our cheeks. “You go first,” and I did. We sled for hours, laughing when the thorns swallowed me up, the roses long dead. After, we sat in my car while it warmed up. While we warmed up. The sting of the kisses long numbed, now thawing into soft bruises. I felt the weight of your arms hugging me tight long after I was back at school. The next winter I didn’t make it home until the last minute, leaving the next. The winter after that, you were gone – temporal missed connections. I saw you’re getting married. I want to tell you how happy I am, but I don’t know how. Perhaps if we were back there, on the hill, I could tell you. right before we push off, I’d turn to meet your eyes. “I’ll go first.”

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