I've always stayed a certain distance away from death. Literally, it's been measurable; a scar three centimeters above my retina where the corner of a coffee table would have blinded or likely lobotomized me, six inches of asphalt and broken glass between my bicycle and the hood of a BMW hell-bent on the highway on ramp. I have been millimeters from ugliness and countless hypothetical paralyses, from exploding pyrex on a reddening stove coil and dodgeballs directly to the skull.
So when I say I know how far away you are, I'm not just measuring those obvious, map-green miles now. I'm thinking handspans across my bed in a pathetic, year-old memory, of steps across a room whose air you took with you when you left. I'm plotting the minefield that might just be everything you say or touch or send me, and I'm waiting for the shrapnel flash, or else an explosion of woefully avoided light.
drawing by Mercedes Heinwein
[ps. sorry I have been so absent! working on longer things and helping little kids write their own things sorta took up all my energy for baby fictions. But I am back! Please forgive me!]
