52 days since

by amy sharp


I drive fast on the highway and sometimes I swear I see your name on the exit signs.
All big and bold. There are whole conversations that I replay in my mind. We talk about things like the future. Food. The way a song lyric attaches itself to the inside of ears. You laugh that big laugh that shows all of your teeth and I count down all the days you could possibly have left. 

I am slowly getting used to you not sending me texts.
I pretend that you are on holiday. I look for postcards in the mail. 
I see you inside of my computer and once at the market, I thought you were in the produce section.
There she is I thought.
Look at her finger those melons.
It was a woman who looked nothing like you when she turned around. 

I ask my 6-year-old if he thinks I am crazy.
He shakes his head and his hazel eyes are sincere.
This is the summer he sees his mother unwind.
Unravel.
Drive fast.