It isn’t possible to tell the entire story. It must be picked apart carefully — offered as pieces of plot and character and meaning.
There are layers.
Of history. Of self-delusion. Of love. Of knowledge. There are the foundations laid down by someone else, that enter our talk and the way we love and hate and speak. The poison that seeps into us, without our knowledge or consent — that we must either accept or fight against every day. Most days we choose to be poisoned.
Brush aside the doubts, soak up the fear that has seeped into our telling — undo time’s certain, yet careless healing.
The trees seem to be watching me. I am remembering your face.