ALMOST by Fiona Dignan

I buried you beneath the barren snag. I think I’ve trapped you inside the tree; there’s a delicious irony in thinking of you as Daphne. I’m the one who remains, even my bruises have faded to an almost pink tenderness.

Once, I read a poem that said almost was the saddest word. I think of the word as a blessing. I almost didn’t make it. There was no almost in what I did to you. I hope the word doesn’t turn on me; she almost got away with it.

Sometimes, I dig into the earth to check you’re still there.

Fiona Dignan is a stay-at-home mother of four and writes to keep herself sane.