Tuesday, October 30, 2012


It sweeps over me sometimes.  It's a sudden onslaught of absolutely paralyzing clarity.
 A reminder that you are truly gone.  

Before I can move, breathe, think, rationalize again, I have to close the flood gates. 
 There are too many memories.

Long walks in the middle of the night.  Your camper.  Summer evenings so humid our skin felt as if it melted together.  The pool.  Signaling from the guard chairs.  Your smile.  Your laugh.  The way our hands fit together.  How you always just knew when I needed a hug.  Our salvation army date.  Your suit jackets.  Our first time under the stars.  My ring.  Ice cream runs.  Your indulgence in my crazy rants.  
Your tears.  My trust.  Secret-telling.  Impromptu rapping.  
Voicemails where you sang to me. Passing love notes.

How does one let go of someone, or the idea of someone, who shaped her soul?  

I breath deep, like the therapist taught me, tracing "tranquil" in my mind because I like the curves of the cursive. I close my eyes, squeeze until red dots invade my black, and when I open them you are more ghost than real.
 I step back and tell myself its over.

It's over.  It's over. It's over.  We are over.

Yet  my heart breaks for the umpteenth time.  I don't even know if that's true.  I think it just stays broken and never really gets sewn back up.

How can it?

How do I ever bounce back from my stability erupting, leaving me alone and speechless and broken?

More than a year, and I am still brought to my knees by this paralyzing clarity:
 my best friend, a part of me, left without looking back.