Hemispheres

One last drink. One last coffee. One last hug. That final window for martinis at happy hour. The afternoon sun hits us, reflecting through the bar’s windows. A flare stretches out across the counter, a patch slicing our pairing in two, the light an omen. Slippery streams of goodbye tears assisted by humidity, fat raindrops, and evening storms. Maybe we could have one more drink. Maybe one more swim. Maybe if we time it right, we can lay on the sand and feel that kind of soothed relief in the clear waters. We could even share a Slurpee, sipping back and forth loose chunks of iced sugar, while I complain about the sticky salt and heat.

I get on the plane. This is it. Hello. Goodbye. Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye again.

Over there it’s summer, here it’s winter still. It was autumn, when it turned into spring. The
days are longer again. Pockets of sun, pockets of rain, pockets of heat.

Now its winter again, but it’s also summer. I sweat all sticky and aglow. The drinks are flowing.
The distance is thick. Time keeps stretching out between us.

We never did get to do_____ and _____. I think on it until fixate.

Every evening when it feels cooler to breathe, I go for a walk. The sunsets here are dry, and
thin at this time of year.

Cara Harvey is a filmmaker who is passionate about the past, present, and future of storytelling, and seeks to find and foster connections between audiences, and communities. She often acts as a muse.