subject line: storytellers.


agloe, new york

That’s the thing. I wanted him to be the story I could tell. There was a part of me that solely craved the one-day moment of getting to sit down with my daughter and tell her about the time I saw him at a baseball game freshman year, how I danced around him nervously like an island girl dancing around a beach bonfire that she couldn’t take her eyes off of; I wanted to be able to tell her about our first kiss, how smooth I was when I pretended to be leaning in to look at something and then pulled him in close, how I couldn’t breathe and just kept thinking “This is really happening” when he pushed me up against the wall of his dorm room; I wanted to be able to laugh with her about the time we had broken into his old dorm during Christmas break to make microwaveable pizza, how we ended up burning it but eating it anyways and pushing two couches together to make a makeshift bed in front of the tv so we could watch a movie; I wanted to tell her about all the times I woke up from a nap and he was gone at swim practice, leaving behind a pile of fresh clothes for me to put on and a sweet note. I wanted to finish our story and tell it. And then I couldn’t. Because he jumped off the pages and became just a chapter I had to tie up with a quick ending. And I think that’s the best way I could ever be able to tell my daughter what heartbreak feels like: never getting to finish writing your favorite story.