“I told him I saw this coming That I’d practically packed up my things. I was glad at the time that I said I was fine but All honesty knows I wasn’t ready, no… And so here we go, bluebird. Gather your strength and rise up. Oh, let him go, bluebird. Oh, let him go, bluebird. Oh, let him go, bluebird.” Sara Bareilles

I guess on the eve-after of Independence Day when we wave our flag and celebrate our freedom, I learn how important it is to let someone go.

It’s funny how a song can immediately make you cry. The tears that well behind leaded lids, so easily they pour down and glisten when the right song comes on. The simple melody of raw energy, emote by a brilliant artist wanting to portray an image to her audience. I honestly can’t see the same picture that Sara Bareilles produced with her gentle strokes on the checkered keys, but I hope that the reader can feel the salty drops as my key strokes quicken on lettered tiles.

It’s funny how his off-hand comment can inflict the slap of a thousand anvils as he rests his lemon-coated hand on the open wound.  The slight rub and tap as he tries to soften the blow, not realizing that he worsens the sting.

How could he know that I’ve heard that same phrase many times… heard the mocking reproach as the glitter of gold dulls to a plastic shine. And then you move away… and I’m left to hold myself up, no crutches, broken feet, unable to prevent sinking to my knees. At least I was able to leave the little nest before that happened. I thankfully made it to the car and down the block before the floodgates open and every feature became red-rimmed.

I could only mention that I was now sad… I had no other words to express how that one simple comment in the joking fashion of a serious chastise, let me know my place.

He couldn’t have known the five words that caused me to accept fatal blows from other men, let them mock me in public, let them tilt a forward facing axis. But it hurt because in that moment I was trying to be open. I thought we reached a point where, even in his honesty, he would recognize the frailness of my feelings. Or understand the depth of my silence, question the closed eyelids.

But he didn’t understand, as he fiddled with my phone, quipped the mulatto heritage on the day that bemoaned equality for all (but for most later). *silence, silence, silence*. “L, are you ok? I think I touched a chord with that one”.

It’s weird how your body langauge changes without you moving a muscle. Bones atrophy, skin cools, eyes sink… and the white noise alleviated with laughter becomes the forefront of the conversation.

I can’t help but think, really? Really? Is that what you think of me? I who am nothing if not kind, understanding, loyal, and true? Oh wait, I just described a puppy… Tina Turner would be proud of how faithful a puppy I was. How I let things get stronger as the river flows, how I let my esteem for you get higher as the mountain grows. Now I’m left to wonder if I would cry if I lost you.

You created the distance, so don’t question the coldness. The icy demeanor still holds true to the barest elements of that faithful puppy, but shyly approaches the hand that feeds… for the punishment for lack of appetite is swift and cunning.

I’m sure this emotion too will pass, I’ll forget this moment ever happened. Store it away with all the other rotten memories rotting in a condemned attic.

“You have an insatiable appetite” He says with a laugh and a smile.

Insatiable and non-discerning if I continue to eat the poison you dish out.

“I’m ready to fly. You and I. Here we go”


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