For happiness or trouble, he had seven Fridays in a week and thirteen months in a year. Surrounded by fields of wheat and corn, he had no clear perception on endings. As he looked for a strip that would guide him to a finish, he hoped to enter the gates of Paradise, and see Heaven beyond them.

The man would spend his time pondering and writing letters. He never sent them, but as a great player in any game of cards, he kept them close to his chest. On Thursday, he wrote:

Why is it -

That I couldn’t have stopped in time.

Was I surrounded by a thick fog of self-deception?

He would dream of a woman that left him, drinking his blood, falling drunk in laughter. Every morning, waking up, he was blinded by bright light and memories of eyes that once fooled him. On Sunday, he wrote:

Like a sip of wine, she drinks you.

You play with her, as she does with you.

When she leaves, listen to the footsteps.

Do you have the power to keep her?

He put his pen down and walked towards the window. It was spring. He saw a flock of birds fly north. In the evening, he bathed himself in warm milk.

The man continued writing letters for eleven months. On the twelfth, his hand began to shake. Surprised, he ruffled through the medicine cabinet looking for a substance that would put his mind at ease. Instead, he was quick to find an old photograph.

He recognized the man’s vengeful eyes and the woman’s gracious posture. Seeing his parents has startled him. It’s been years since he considered all the ways his mother used to confide in him. Unlike his father, he chose to be a man of silence instead of violence. He was delicate and trusting.

The man carried the photograph to the table, picked up a pen, and wrote:

A force pulls me towards you-

Like it does to a mother and her child.

You won’t feel bad for me-

Because, just maybe,

You feel worse.

That night he stirred honey into his wine and laid his cards down. He accepted his loss with honor, remarking fragility of time and long learned lessons. He was lucky to be left and even luckier having learned to forgive again.

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