better left unsaid;

I know I should not be saying this,

but at 14 minutes to one in the morning, 

I miss my aunt. I miss the little things, the nonsense:

the laying in bed at two in the afternoon, sun leaking through the shutters.

the drives around town, '57 Chevrolet pickup, windows down, hair blowing in the wind.

the vintage finds, the old handbags. hair brushes that belonged to my grandmother, to her mother,

I miss my friend, 

the warm embrace as salty liquid escaped the brims of my eyes on exhausting high school days.

I miss,

             my aunt.

//

You'll be getting your short stories back, marked, next week or the week after. And the thought echoed, bounced off the curves in my brain as I lay, stomach down, on my bed. Inhaling the scent of the tulips in the window, my new perfume, the warmth of the morning clung to my duvet. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about work being "marked." The idea that your creativity is being critiqued by another being, deciding whether or not you're able of passing. It's all a bit…off. Like the snow melting on the warm concrete of the city, people complaining about the cold but never happy when it's warm. I laid in bed, watching the neighbours play in the white remnants of last week, thinking of how the whole world is a bit off, how we're always being critiqued, criticised, watched over by someone else.

And then I thought, what if we didn't. How would the world be if we all loved, and we woke up next to different people and loved them all the same. If we trudged off to work with smiles instead of emotionless faces, walked into class giggling instead of dreading. I walk into every Wednesday class giggling, musing over ideas in my head, channeling energies and focusing on possible story lines.

On Wednesdays, I love. And I ignore those who do not, for they are not as happy as I. 

x