A weekend of cake and parties. A week of weighty memories, sad marks on the calendar, remembering lives that have come and gone, death and birth..a week that ended with a celebration. I don't know how to keep my emotions up with my pace. It seems they all come colliding on Sunday night, when the pace has slowed and the wrapping paper has been picked up by the trash guys.
Everything looks so ordinary from this blue couch, now that I'm finally here.
(I will add that I'm celebrating her. I'm looking forward to visits. To future long weekends of tea and Lorna Doones.)
Those moments are jarring; letting go of someone, knowing you're letting go of so much more than just a body.
(The slipping of sand in between my fingers.)
The engine rumbled underneath my feet as I pulled out from the country house, chinese lanterns bobbing in the trees and over their half-filled wine glasses. I felt that familiar fire in my throat. The kind of fight that scratches at my every soul-string until I have to consider pulling the car over for safety. I'm not even talking about a full cry. Maybe a few burning tears, but instead some sort of unseen propulsion. I didn't pull the car over. I just turned up the stereo, watched the sky turn to dark... and I tried to just feel it.
This sweet slow song filled the air, all the windows down at this point. Feeling wind-whipped and weary, I just listened.
"Cos it's not who you are and it's not what you wanted.
I can see, I can see
the strength there inside you.
Calling you, come away to where you're bright eyed and hopeful."
This week, this weekend, this drive that screams at my feet to pay attention. I feel it all.
Every note. Every tear. Every lantern swinging. It's all writing this part of my story. So instead of pulling over, I push the pedal harder.
There's places to go, and going is part of the living.