stories don’t just have a beginning and an end.
stories are hills, at least that’s what I learned in the seventh grade.
there was the beginning, the climax, even before the end, there was the denouement, the slow escalation—
the foyer, before the door shuts sometimes too fast, sometimes hitting you even if you weren’t on your way out.
life is a succession of stories, like little balls of light on a string decorating and criss-crossing through the gardens in our minds.
there was no hill, for you and me.
our story was not our seventh grade creative writing piece.
ours were short stories out of the Skeleton Key, volumes of Paradiso, lost and found, hills up and down, dusty plateaus in no man(should ever venture)’s land, corn fields that had no end, falling straight down off the edge of the world, the page.
our stories were not always written. they’re subconscious decisions. that haunt every few volumes, misprinted: repeating paragraphs, every so often, long enough to forget they happened. while we confused readers with our missing quiet moments. a story with holes we danced around, playing guessing games of how we began, but I’ve filled up each one with 3-5 sentences of love and laughter.
it is a circle. they should have called the story a sun. where we had ended, we began. where each number on each chapter page is crisp like the morning and dry like the palm of your hand. holding on. or letting go. on each new page, our ink blends and says
the story that is an ending has only one beginning.
the story that is a beginning has only one end.