July 17, 2008
What I do worst�Letting go.
But here, or somewhere, I have to.
Adam Brower rolled into the shop, his tall white diesel idling loudly against the building, and ordered some parts after we closed. I didn�t mind sticking around to help out an old friend � we chatted and chirped about past and present. His inked up arms resting on the counter, his crooked smile sneaking up here and there, and his long, thoughtful pause before inquiring about me without having to. He saw the truth spinning in my gut when he asked about you.
�You�re still there, aren�t you?� he asked.
�Well, ya know�� I began.
Just haven�t gotten to that place yet. That place where I can let the memories rest in a book on the shelf. Where I can put them away for as long as I wish, let them settle under a thin layer of satisfaction and move on, taking a look back only on occasion. I just haven�t gotten around to letting go.
Perhaps I just suck at that. But here, or there, I have to.
Toss away the idea that I�ll ever get to come home to you, let alone inquire after you directly. So what I do is piece together scraps of information � I gather orts of questionable evidence and collect hints of what might be. From this I ascertain how you must be doing. I hope it�s good and lean in that direction, always, still waiting for the opportunity to witness it first hand � your glow of life.
And for what?
A mere wave as you pass by my life to live your own? A simple nod of the head as you cross my path, accidentally tripping over my presence? Is that all I�m holding onto? A mere acknowledgment of my unfailing torch?
I linger in this space holding onto the possibility of a conversation. I stay behind, lured in by the idea of a chance meeting in outer space, of the potential, without really knowing if you were there let alone if you will be.
How ridiculous. How pitiful.
That I should look for you, hope for you, weep for you, wonder for you, raise a toast to you when you�ve already catapulted yourself down another road.
Just because I suck at letting go. But here, and somehow, I have to.
I have to match your pace and simply, easily, flick-of-the-wrist, turn around and walk away. I have to do what I do worst�
Let you go.