Grief Written

The tumbling of the dryer shakes the entire apartment The slap slap slap of my wet clothes hitting the metal drum  Mixed with the rattling of the apartment windows I can feel the vibrations move through the soles of my feet and it shakes any semblance of a thought forming  and I remind myself that the building is old. That the bones of the building are not used to such modern adjustments and that here the sun finds its way inside, And that the cat loves her perch beside the windowsill and beneath the air conditioning unit.  Sometimes I pace between the spaces, passing from the living room through the kitchen into the bedroom and then bathroom. Back, again. You said you need space — to move, to be. For you, the breadth of it was not enough. I remember sitting in the corner with my friend as she cried over a boy. The apartment was mostly empty besides some boxes. We drank wine from paper cups left over from my birthday the year before and I remember thinking, “I could fill this place wit

 Somewhere in a photography store are photos of the Oregon Coast The film had been bought years prior, cradled by coins collected and placed in a catch all jar  I remember watching a YouTube video three times, rewinding again again again  As I carefully enrolled the film between cupped hands to shield it from what little sunlight broke through  I could feel him watching me from the corner of his eye as he spoke on the phone but pushed his purview to side as the dial clicked. We walked to the beach barefoot and the rocks were sharp under my feet, the callouses of my childhood turned to softness I remember running through rivers and climbing trees as a girl The way my mother would watch me only slightly, assured in the toughness of my skin  And my ability to tread lightly on seashells, eggshells, cliff-sides and girlhood I brought her up that drive when hours had bleed through into the roadway and he told me, “Pass. I only want to talk about happy things.”  Click. We’re walking on the pa