My wife says, “You are repressed.” I tell her I’m not, that I’m happy, or, well, content at least. She says, “Not depressed. Reee-pressed. You need to go through your old photo albums.”
I come across them now, unpacking in this new apartment, the one my brother says will turn into a bachelor pad, a “butt hut.”
They’re a thousand different-sized photographs stuffed inside shoe boxes.
It only takes me viewing one or two before things start to swim to the surface and my skin twists, my teeth sweating.
I wish this new space had a fireplace, but even so the oven gets a flame pretty quick.
And that’s how I know she was right to leave me, and right about what she said.
The pictures curl like gutless, gray shells and the faces smolder. It will take awhile to get through them all, but if I’ve got anything now, it’s time.
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State with an eagle and three pesky beavers. His short fiction appears in places like Camroc Press Review, Right Hand Pointing and also at http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com.