Photo by John Krach on Unsplash
by Jo Gatford
When we find each other, in our sixties, after you leave yours and mine dies, there will be no need to explain anything at all. We will both be new at it, even though we dabbled, separately, in our youths — but we have spent a lifetime with our own bodies, so we’ll know when it’s finally right.
There will be no need for hindsight, nor regret — what a crock’s worth of uselessness that ever was — because when we find each other it will be now, and now is all there ever should be.
Your daughter will cry when she meets me; at first from sweetness and then for envy, when she catches her husband’s lemon-twist smirk. My kids don’t talk to me much anymore, and they’ll keep their questions buttoned down anyhow, the way their father bled into them. Your dog will grouch into the crook behind my knees the first night I stay, and my bulbs will bloom in your window box the spring after that.
Jo Gatford is a short writer who writes (mostly) short things. She edits other people’s words for her supper and writes about writing at The Joy of Fixion. Read more at www.jogatford.com or find her on various socials @jmgatford
