I have had a lot of life changing discussions with a lot of people but in the past six months it has been a lot with my mom as well as an institute instructor. During one of our meetings my institute teacher told me something that helped things click in my mind. He told me that if you're holding onto something your hand is closed, you can't give or receive unless you let go. I'm ready to progress, receive opportunities to grow.
So this is my poem to goodbye:
Force myself out of bed again.
Soak in the cold shower.
Another bowl of soggy cheerios.
Hike up to music history class.
Spoon half a grapefruit.
Follow my feet to the next grey building to study.
Push open a silver glass doo-
I can see him across the bright commons area.
He’s wearing dark flannel and those well-fit jeans,
just how I left him five weeks ago.
Today his eyes remind me of deep lakes and caramel.
He speaks my name and it gently shakes me inside.
I find myself passing the red flag and I’m sitting next
to him. My hand forgets momentarily and
almost reaches out to caress his calluses.
He leaves to go to his next class
and I curl on the scarlet couch to study.
Black letters on the page begin to swim and I try to follow
them lap the page around and around.
I’m reading prose and memories, I’m in one.
Our winding truck ride to Bear Lake where we
parked off the road to watch the sun rise,
a long awaited embrace after working in separate states,
long evening talks at the bus stop my apartment, and
hiking on the muddy, canyon path in late May.
I can almost feel the soft squeeze of his hand
and then we’re up on his grandfather’s rooftop
surrounded by grapevines,
Lecture on a bloody civil war.
Daze the way home.
Last baked potato.
Corner myself in homework.
Hide under cool covers.
He didn’t even look back.
Au revoir, my dear J. Au revoir.