In Leaving

This is not a new revelation. Even a death. Even a whole lifetime.

“She wonders at the trust she’s placing in random things — the scent of damp sandstone, a vision of well-turned out pudding — but what else does she have?” — The Names by Florence Knapp, p. 27

Lemon balm (Melissa officinalis), when crushed between your fingertips — it’s summer and safety and sea salt and your hands come away dusted in citrus.

The creak of hardwood floor, and the way your feet brace against it, 52 tiny bones shifting beneath you. You feel the tug of a thread on your sock as it catches on a seam in the boards, for nothing is ever really seamless.