The texts rolled across my screen, words of prior hurt and helplessness swarming my eyes and teasing my lungs. I replied, steadily, casually, thoughtfully. I watched the expectation, misplaced and twisted as it ever was, fill my long cleared life. I felt my mood falter, my bearing shift.
I finished the conversation, I put the phone down. I wandered to the kitchen, made coffee. I filed back to my laptop and shuffled towards today’s work. I sat in front of the screen and wondered if I’d cry, and then I realized
I didn’t want to.
I didn’t have the tears, I didn’t have the care.
I remembered the hurt and the ugliness like the knotted tumored choking clarity they were, but I didn’t feel them. I read them as I read my hunger before a meal or my fatigue during a run; real and tangible and utterly done.
I went about my business, my hand clasped around my closure, its tiny fragile fingers lightly curled around my thumb. I left that conversation angry about a wound I thought had closed, its unseen edges troublesome.
But what angered me was the memory of that slimy judgment stamped across my lack of forgiveness
A stamp that I expunged
into the abyss of inconsequential where it so truly belongs.
What saddened me was the reminder
And as soon as it was done
I left it
In my cavern of wrongs
Closure snuck so quietly, in fairy footsteps next to me, I forgot to listen for it.
I hadn’t realized it’d been with me all along.