Curator of My Own Life

the same room I had sl

I had left it, but it

s, charcoal drawings of Julian' s hands, h

me a museum of a love

of expensive sable brush

m to me for my s

ed that da

studio, frustrated with a pain

round me from behind, his

little one," he had whispered, "bu

ushes, telling me they w

y, to the feeling of his

en my who

rushes, the wood smooth

er brought comfort

ck came at

as J

e doorway, loo

okay?" he asked, his v

being...

an. Just tired

step int

e in. I should have told you

s voice, sweet and possess

ss of water? The baby

d snapped tow

om his face, replaced by an im

love. I'll be

one last, f

talk

left without

ing to his footsteps

is voice dripping with the aff

y doorway and

sofa, his hand on her stomach again,

of a family, a complete wor

ound sense of

his house, but it w

aunting the edges of

that was suffocatingly awkward

ideas for redecorating," h

oom would make a perfect nursery

layr

ith a whole wall as a chalkboard a

ll of my

, Amelia?" he asked, a rhetorical

on me, watching, wai

me, oblivious face, and I felt no

r shed for him was drying

my voice cle

anymore. It's a

very letter he had ever sent me at school, every bir

l sketches of him

ories into the damp, dar

pit we used for burning

he paper, turning his beautiful, l

with such love blist

dn't

et and final goodbye to

the night sky, and w