For many years, I did not go looking for him.
I sat on my hands. I did not take pictures, or sketch trees or write poems. I let it go, the driving urge to be seen. To command. To insist on my own fierce existence.
I felt him in this world with me but I thought he would be better off. Would find love in the arms of some other more deserving girl. Would claim a new home, a new life.
I did not see. Not for years.
Without me next to him, no one was next to him. Without me to be his witness, no one stepped forward. No one had my eyes to see. The women who loved him in my place…