by Katlyn Whittenburg
In the beginning.
In the beginning was the word and the word was “why.”
And someone responded, not sure of what to say or of “what” and “say” but continued anyway because there was air to breathe and time to waste and it felt good to be the only sound making. And then the first, unsatisfied, continued. But not sure of “how” and never getting the “why,” it started this time with “what,” which led to “it,” which didn’t feel good because it was the mud and the sky and the other and all the same and so “it” became “I” because it had to. And I stood there alone and looked at it and it looked at I and it and I felt together for the first time. And it felt me, and I felt it and it became more. It became you and you and I felt together for the first time. And then you and I became we, but it was over much too quickly for me.
And so.
And so from here came there as a space grew between us.
And though still wondering, I did not say, but thought, and I kept that thought to myself. And myself kept more and more and grew larger and larger without you. And there you were with yourself keeping just as much. And the more we kept, the more space we needed on our own. And so I found mine and you found yours. And soon mine became me and yours became you and “you couldn’t possibly understand” and “yours couldn’t possibly be as good.”
From there.
From there on, we moved further and further with spaces filled with more words than truths.
Katlyn Whittenburg is a mother, a comedian, and a writer.