petrichor.

We used to play in the dirt. Sink our fingers into the mulch like worms, bury moths under the bottlebrush. They paved that garden over with concrete last year.

We used to run away together. Read separate books cramped under the tin shelter. We sat under the house and watched the rain. I convinced you to open your blinds in the morning. You made me drink water. Simple things.

Even now. You’ve changed a lot. I feel the same as I did when we were nine. Maybe you haven’t changed at all. Maybe I’m the one who’s changed, and now I can see what you always were. It’s not bad. Just different. Change is an austere house-mother, a lesson learned. A strict but loving hand is all I’ve ever known; it surprises me that change afflicts me so.

Do you look forward to it: The Inevitable? Or do you not look at all? Maybe that’s why you never open your blinds. I think it’s going to hit you one day, like a truck. Maybe that’s just me.

To be so disillusioned, at your age. It makes me wonder if your concept of home is more twisted than I think it is. For me it’s you. Existing with you is safe. Your embrace is warm. What else do I need?

For you it’s different. I think. I don’t know. It’s not something I can ask. You tell me you don’t know how to love. I think that’s a lie, because I’ve seen you love me. I don’t know.

Feeling my hip touch the ground through the air mattress, lying on my side next to you. Putting on layers of jumpers and socks because your parents like the air-con cold and we know the blankets don’t stick well to the strange felt of the mattresses. Yeah. That.

It’s always you.