The Ghosts of Summers Past

Two years have passed since we touched hands through the chain length fence, all forbidden fruit and hormones. On especially quiet Sundays, I often find myself laying in the grass; the very spot where we once laughed and talked and planned for a future full of pretty children and stable finances, white picket fences, neighborhood barbecues.

Things have changed.

The ghosts of summers past still haunt me; still whisper sweet nothings in my ear in the lazy summer heat, still try to tempt me into missing you, but they are not alone.

13 months have passed since you started drinking again. 12 have gone by since I began to make excuses for you. 11 since I wore long sleeves perpetually, since I caked on enough makeup for two people, since I began to pray that you wouldn’t come home.

Six since I walked out the door and didn’t look back. My bruises have faded, but my psyche is scarred. Yet among all the strife, all the pain, a single, ironic truth remains.

It almost killed me, but I finally grew up.

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