Sometimes I imagine waking up and finding the world is spinning upside down. I think I could fall then through the sky, the clouds, and I would never again reach the ground. This feeling reminds me of you most
and now and then I think about all of the ways in which I have counted my breaths held up when passing graveyards, or underwater when I was trying to see if I could ever get some kind of closeness to Houdini. I used to want to be the world’s best escape artist. I know how to slip out of handcuffs and pick locks and I know how to miss people because escape is always about leaving and going away and being apart and
I never thought that I would never want to escape from you. When I imagine how I looked out once at the lake and thought it might rise up and swallow this city, I thought of how ghosts must feel when it rains and still no one thinks about them. I used to think I’d never make a promise to you that I’d try to remember you but
the thing is I think I would. There are so many things I try to remember exactly: the feel of jelly shoes on my feet at age seven and the way they hugged the arch of my foot and the way that valley mud always felt so cool and the color of the sky before it dipped into a storm and the taste of Cherry Chantilly Cake filled with cream and sugar and it never taste as good when one is any age but five and a half. I can’t name the color of your eyes, not exactly. And so I’m afraid I’ll lose that color too. Sometimes,
I think that everything I know about escape was only a preparation for loss. And I want to say to you that you shouldn’t let me rip up playing cards because when the magic trick doesn’t work they won’t ever come back to me whole again.