When I was a little girl, salting the feathers of birds so that I could catch them. Photographs my father took: my woolen coat, salt shaker, chubby legs hopeless in pursuit. I never wondered what I would do if I caught the birds, but then I never did.
What do you even get out of that relationship? I asked him. I feel loved, he said. Me, scoffing: Right, I'm pretty sure that's the bare minimum for a relationship. Really? he asks. And have you felt loved, in your relationships?
On the phone I say I miss you. Come be with me, I say. The connection is weak, the sound drops out, my voice echoes back to me. The trick is that if you were close enough to salt it, you'd be close enough to catch it. I throw the salt as far as I can; the wind sweeps it back into my eyes and it stings like tears.