I long for silence
and to be heard.
I long for rain
to clear the skies.
I long mostly
to feel again
like I am worthy of love.
There was a woods once. It wasn’t remarkable in any way, and I wouldn’t have remembered it at all, if it were not the place my grandfather used to take me. Even at eight years old, I was an unimaginative girl, and all I saw were redwoods and dirt paths. But he taught me, he taught me to see the majesty of those great limbs, the way the foliage made a blue sky look even more blue. He told me stories: that there was a fairy in the frog pond, and that all the little tadpoles were wishes being granted. He showed me how to find colorful spotted beatles, how to tell Chamise from Old Man’s Beard.
Remember this place, he says, but never be worried about losing it, because it is inside of you.
Forgetting is so long.
You do everything you can: pack your days with work and cleaning and mindless noise; get a new haircut or do not wash your hair at all; start a new exercise routine or watch rerun after rerun.
Forgetting is so very long.
You hide pictures that once meant the world to you, paint your nails a drastic color, scream out the window or go for days without talking.
And none of this erases the pain.
Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published in over fifty literary magazines, and her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She teaches English Composition at the University of Cincinnati-Blue Ash College and also works as a freelance writer. She loves dogs and is a proud owner of Havanese named Chloe.