Salt

November 12, 2020

I think in all forms, you have your hands folded neatly. On the worst of days you still comb your hair.

Some people stand so firmly at the front of your mind that it is hard not to feel that everything that is balanced on that soft pink tissue is falling slowly towards the impression their feet make. Like a parachute, like cat and mouse, like inevitability.

I’m sorry. I couldn’t picture forever, I couldn’t hold it in my hand. I could hold your hand, and I could think about planning a party, and that felt good.

But when we get drunk I often forget who you are. The space around you holds impressions from other shapes that have been there, been directly In Front of Me.

Imagine it: running up the side of the hill, geese taking off in every direction, the last of the light cutting patterns into the water, the restaurant sign beginning to glow in the darkness, near empty road for miles ahead of us.

But it’s winter now and your heels sound like they have salt underneath them, which cuts against the tile the whole way down the hallway.

In five months, someone will see a tagged post, put things together, and say they could have guessed. And it will be fine. This is a more pleasurable way to learn my lesson.


Katherine Walker-Jones is an artist from Winnipeg who is now based in Toronto: they make theatre, poems, and songs.