January 30, 2012

My dearest,

You frown at me. Another bruise. Why are you so clumsy? you ask me. Why do you keep knocking into stuff and hurting yourself in your own home?

I have no answer. I do not know. The furniture are where they always have been – the chairs and the table and the bookcases. I have not been blindfolded. I know my way around the apartment. Yet I keep knocking into corners; my flesh is drawn to hard surfaces. I allow my body to slam against our home. It always hurts and I am never able to stiffle a curt cry of surprise and you always hear me. You never fail to scold me first before rushing over, putting your fingers over my injury, softly caressing it and asking me if it hurts.

I always answer no, because that is the truth. It never hurts when I am a klutz around you.

Yours, ever and always.