top of page

I Turn Left

A Sunday Story, only it's not Sunday.

Her hand. I see it hanging out the driver’s side window. I know it’s her. It’s been eight years, but I know.

I look up. The light is still red. I have time. I look back at her hand, the unmistakable tiny heart at her wrist. It hurt so bad that heart. I know. I have one too.

I turn my own hand over now, rest it on the steering wheel, see the heart. I look back at her hand hanging out the window, the same red ink as mine. It is calling out to me.

Eight years. I haven’t had eyes on her for eight years but I can never forget that hand, that heart, even if now there are rings on her finger that weren’t there when I left.

My heart is heavy with that. It is so heavy. Did I think she’d wait? I did.

I look at my wrist again. I take my foot off the break a little, inch closer.

I look up. The light is still red. I have time.

I inch closer.

I can’t see the heart anymore, but I can see her arm, the bend in her elbow, the smoothness of her skin, long hair falling over her shoulder.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “Look this way. I never stopped loving you.”

I stare at the side of her face, long eye lashes and the curve of her ear sticking out from hair she's pushed behind it. I remember doing that too, pushing thick locks of hair behind her ear, pleading with her, saying I was sorry and wrong and loved her so much.

I still am. I still do.

I look up. The light turns green. There is no time.

I look to her, but she is pulling forward, the heart on her wrist tucked back inside the window now, my own heart hidden against the steering wheel.

I should follow her. Just like eight years before, I should go where she is going.

But instead I turn left.

bottom of page