Art and Memory

I am sitting in bed counting the hours until he will receive the letter. It's an odd feeling, like listening to the ticking of a time bomb. I was just remembering this morning how he looked just a couple of days ago as he sat in my backyard, the sun melting into his soft skin. I had a strange urge to paint him; he looked so much like one of the Greek statues I just saw in the Louvre. There was a resemblance, or at least there was in my eyes. I had forgotten how beautiful he was. but I didn't paint him, or sculpt him. I didn't even take a picture. So now I'll just have to remember, since that's probably the last time he'll be sitting in my backyard at all. It's up to me to remember the exact color of the flowers and the angle of the sun. The color of the grass and what we were wearing. What we were reading, saying, thinking.

I am wondering how he'll react to what I sent. He probably won't do anything. Which is better. If he struggles against me, I will give in. I know I don't have it in me to say no to him. Which is why this has taken so long in the first place. This change, this choice, this thing I decided I have to do. Where will it take me? Where will it leave me?

At least I have all weekend to compose myself.