We all wish we could rewind our lives.
That bed on which the baby lay sleeping
had no sides. I was too small to express my guilt
in words. My dreams are populated
by subtle reminders, shy of daylight.
The woods and fields where you walked your dog
are gone. She would run just ahead of you,
tail in the air. We should have seen it coming.
The filtered light coming through the curtains
at dusk, the sounds of porcelain dishes clattering
from downstairs. When you go back, listen.
Don’t try to repaint the past. You need
to get close enough to see its wrinkles, hear
the pulsing of its blue veins. Why did we
insist on filling those empty silences
with words. Remember how it was
when she knew she would be going
and we pretended not to understand?
I sat on a bench and tried to think
of something else to say, anything.
The hands of the clock on the tiled kitchen wall
spin around, faster and faster. There is no time
like the present. She said: what matters
is that you are here. I can still recall
the heat from the palms of her hands.
Missing puzzle pieces and sundry irritations,
friends who suddenly stop calling, they all
keep me awake. I add these murky troubles
to my growing pile of moss-covered stones
to be dealt with later. They clamor nightly
for my attention, begging for forgiveness.

Previously published by Apple Valley Review, April, 2013

About the Author

Christina Frei grew up in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and has lived in Toronto, Dakar, Amsterdam, back to Toronto, and now Montreal. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and she has been nominated for Best of the Net 2013, three Pushcart Prizes, and a Best New Poets award.


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  1. This is wonderful thought provoking prose that is making me slow down, right now, thinking about what you have said. It makes so much sense and so heartfelt . Thank you Christina!

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