Entry In an Old Journal
Not until I read the faded words did I recall either the argument or the night that preceded it, when as she lay, dreaming, beside me, I could not sleep, but stared at a dark window which opened inward, and found myself a stranger in my own bed, unable to explain how I got there. Months passed between those events, yet now --reading of them, as if of the life of some stranger-- I juxtapose the two in memory. Each time, something was lost; only the colour of the losing changed: Black, then Red. Each time touched the other in some way that will not obey the laws of clocks. Each time, then, becomes a bridge toward the other. Now, many loves later, I am forgetting which woman lay next to me, which woman raised such anger that cannot be recalled except by reading faded words.
W. Luther Jett