The Ugly Duckling

There's something about the way a toy sailboat tilts in the wind that makes me hold my breath. I know it's in my head. I know the sail will curve just so and the wind will blow just so and the little strand of silver will ripple and crease the water. I know that the sailboat is going to make it around the bend. Still, I wince every time I watch it stroke the murky green of Alice's pond. I think it's because I'm afraid of falling.

I sat on one of those wooden benches today. I mention that because I usually sit on the grass, but this time, I sat on one of the benches. It wasn't ornate, or freshly painted, but I sat there because it was inscribed with something I've been trying to avoid. The bench read "To my dear Beth, because you hear me when I speak and wait while I count fireflies".

I'm trying forget what that feels like. I'm trying to forget what anything feels like, really. I'm trying to be ok with things, you see? But here, in this city of sculpture and solitude, there's a person who sits next to Beth on Sunday afternoons and loves her, and I'm terrified that knowing that might ruin everything.

So I think I'll sit and watch the boats turn the bend. Suspense with certainty is comforting for now.