Nostalgia

Millicent's all heart, but the years wear people out. That's what they do, what they're here for. You could hear them years sing Hi-Ho as they chip off your body, your mind. Your heart. Particularly for Millicent, the years set up camp on her eyes. So finally, she had to tell me, "these eyes were duty-bound to see, to look at you; as if tears weren't labor enough." In the singular breath of gratitude and impatience, I told her to stop staring, stop playing Monica to my Augustine. I told her to pack her eyes up, whistle to her years so they could gather the kettles and pickaxes. I whispered, "Millicent, get sorrows of your own; all my sins come with mirrors." I whispered so things would be light for her as she packed. Then I whispered some more so the years would laugh in her wake.