Sixty Degrees in December
It was preordained.
Leaving a person or a place is not something I do lightly.
Somewhere in my memory my six-year-old self is holding
tightly to a tattered, worn-down stuffed animal – its floppy ears clenched
between tiny fists, a heart too heavy to let it go.
It is a keepsake of nostalgia, a reminder of the innocence that
once was.
I vow to keep it in the trash bags of my mind – not as a disrespect
to the piece itself, but as a cautionary practice: the act of moving on a
looming force in the future that attacks when you least expect it.
How am I supposed to let go of a person then?
If I am too afraid of losing the animal that sits in a dusty
trash bag underneath my childhood bed, how will I let go of a friend?
Tonight, I was told: “I have a hard time making friends so
it’s hard for me to imagine moving anytime soon.”
We are in our 20s and although it is painful and fantastic,
we’re haunted by the simple fact that everything passes. This force doesn’t
frighten me, but it does anger me.
Tonight, I sat at a spotless table with my friends, and they
ate the cookies I baked that were less than spectacular and they told me they
were good.
I’ve always had a hard time making friends. Is that why I
can’t let any of them go?
I am leaving soon, and I am reminded of how precious this
is. I cannot collect these people and carry them with me from state to state. So,
I bottle every moment. I will continue to do this until my memory fades, and I
also pass and become what once was.
I am humbled to feel seen, and I am humbled to move on. I am
humbled by the fact that I was once someone who could not let go. I am humbled by
the fact that I changed.
