Breaking Up With Fish Hatchery Road, Part III

Have you missed the beginning? Here’s Part I and Part II.

Apologizing has never been a strength, my pride drives itself through the messy highway of my veins. I’ve tried to make up for it by searching for you since I left. And I’ve found you, in nearly a hundred different ways. I’ve seen you in the soft mud that buries itself in the threads of my boots. It’s composition is less terrestrial, appearing more in greys and tans that your reddish-brown April mud. I’ve heard you in the conversations of the magpies that bounce off the tiny bedroom windows, we’re both inhabiting the same square footage, yet I’ve no idea what they speak of. Did you think the same of me? You’ve held me in the Adirondack chair on the patio, that had been seemingly forgotten across the Atlantic. Did you put it there, had you known all along I needed that piece of you?

You’re in the blobs of saliva dripping sloppily from a happy border collie chasing a tennis ball I pick up and throw, pick up and throw, pick up and throw for hours on Saturday afternoon. I’ve tasted you in my third Magner’s cider on Friday evening. One more before you’d signal me towards home. You pump my leg muscles with oxygen during early morning jogs. Your scent shoots up my nostrils while I fold my freshly laundered t-shirts. You spread across my tongue in the form of a chai tea latte, the hot drink that starts my day. I’ve tasted you in the miniature candies of Halloween supplies. I’ve felt you in the vibrations in my sternum from booming of the fireworks commemorating the fifth of November. You echo in the night sky for nearly a week, shooting from the hands of neighbors and strangers.

I’ve felt you in the snow that isn’t falling, in the banks that aren’t growing. You’re woven into the wool socks I needn’t have packed. I’ve tasted you in the seafood stew that I won’t eat on Christmas Eve, side by side with close family members. I’ll celebrate another rotation around the Sun without you, nearly five hours before you do, when the clock hand strikes midnight. And that’ll be the end of it. There goes the last year that I’d return to you during holidays, birthdays and free weekends. 2014, the end of an era, our era.

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