Originally written 12.11.2007
“He should know,” she said. “He should know, ‘I loved you then. I loved you before it was trendy. Before color. Before sound. I loved you when it meant I had to hold it in. I loved you because you made it feel like it was possible for me to be loved by somebody, in the whispers and the shadows, the real me and not my representative. And I don’t feel like I should have to tell you that because…you should know.'”
And she hadn’t meant to say all this. Was only trying to say, “Good night, goodbye” ’til suddenly it was one farewell too many. And this avalanche of emotion caused precipitation to make its way down her cheek, tremors in her throat. She let it happen. She holds onto the part of him that resists, the prickly; to the picky she says, “Pick me. Love me or let me go.”
I listen. I witness. And now everything falls away. Not so different: 2 broken hearts in glittery wrappers. I would hold her hand ’cause it would mean that mine got held too, but I can only muster stillness. Wish I didn’t know what she meant, that growing pains didn’t leave such scars. Wish they didn’t turn fireworks into rubble.
And I know this means that the dream will come again tonight. The apology, the soul-quieting clarity that will all burn off with the first light of day when I remember…the reminder that this summer in the city meant winter came 6 months too soon. It’s not fair to have to mourn the living when, unintentionally, by stating your peace you’ve waged a war. It’s the worst kind of nightmare.
So we have to learn to break down. Learn to let go and let shatter. Learn to cut the cord even when it feels umbilical. Or biblical. Or trivial. Or hard.
And I think she’s right: he should know.
With everything in me, I wish he did.
Footsteps On Concrete 