Each One No Bigger than the Cornea of Her Eye

I roughly ripped the sheets from the notebook and began to tear them into tiny squares, each one no bigger than the cornea of her eye. I dropped the pieces into the toilet and flushed. Of course, nothing ever flushes the first time, if you’re trying to hide it, so I waited. The water swirled, creating a torrent of the fragments of my thoughts. And slowly, they disappeared. As the bowl began to refill, one square floated up and spun on the surface. For whatever reason, I crouched to investigate. I could see some meaningless scribbles, the letter e—nothing that mattered. And then the septic current flipped the scrap over to reveal one word: happy.
Like the breaking crown of a newborn, my face split in a smile. And then I laughed. I stood, and laughed with my body. I tipped my head back and let the air fly from my lungs and carry my voice with it.

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