SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Not a Chance - Monday, Jul. 15, 2019
Brighter - Friday, Jul. 12, 2019
Bernard - Wednesday, Jul. 10, 2019
Sailing - Tuesday, Jul. 09, 2019
Best Friends - Monday, Jul. 08, 2019


Monday, Jul. 15, 2019 @ 10:02 am
Not a Chance



We lay in bed together talking. We are in the guest room at his friend's house, where we spent the weekend climbing and paddling during the day and wrangling toddlers in the afternoon. Watching him tend to a crying child, watching him push a child on a swing at the playground. I stand at the top of the slide while he stands at the bottom, and I give the little boy a push. A shriek of joy from the child as he swoops down the smooth arc of plastic, and then Russell scoops him up into the air.

In the midst of conversation, I feel his body slide into sleep. His breath falls into a steady rhythm, his head falls heavily against me. His arms stay wrapped so tightly around me, a firm grip, as if we are falling together through the sky.

“I fell asleep,” he apologizes quietly.

“Yes, you did, but you didn't let go of me.”

“Not a chance.”

In the morning, I rise and open the curtains. I rest my elbows on the windowsill, let my hair fall loose down my back. The sky is blue beyond the canopy of maple trees.

I return to bed, trace my fingers across my favourite parts of his body: the inner part of his bicep that emerges when his hands are behind his head, the soft line along the bottom of his rib cage.

“I loved watching you look out the window,” he says. “This is the best way to wake up.”


Roots | Shoots