journals you kept when you were in love

You move, again, this time to the north-facing rooms of an old house on an old street. You stand on your porch and look over into the backyard of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s city home. You unpack your books and fill the shelves, and you settle in. The person you intend to love for the rest of your life moves in around you. His desk in one corner, yours in another, a shelf full of both your things in the bathroom. And then, one quiet afternoon, you’re alone in these rooms. You find your old journals tucked in between books. It’s summer here now, and it’s summer also in these journals, three four years ago, a different life. In these pages, you’re mourning the slow end of a relationship, or you’re on a train, or you’re standing in a shallow river with a long-legged dog. You’re remembering Nigeria, you’re opening windows. You’ve opened the windows again.

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