Words slip from my tongue like a sour candy that has lost its flavour. I want to speak my mind, but it’s a blank page in an unwritten book.
I search the room around me for someone to talk to. I’m invisible in a room full of people.
I start a thought, but as soon as it buds, interruptions spew herbicides on my ideas.
In silence, I find my words. I connect with my soul. I mourn the people who gave me life, yet sheltered, and stunted so much of my growth.
I wasn’t ready to let them go when they passed so few years ago. It’s not as though I really had a choice though. One thing it taught me though is that we never really do know how to properly say “good-bye.”
Every time I leave the house, my last words to my children are “I love you.” When they leave, it’s the same ritual. On the phone, most calls with friends end the same way. I always fear that my last words to someone will be in anger. I could never live with that guilt.
When I was thirteen, I argued with my brother before he left the house. I wished that he’d stay home so that we could continue our fight, rather than go out on his date. That night, he was hit by a drunk driver. His car was totalled, but he was thankfully okay. That night I promised myself that I’d never let anger escape my lips when saying “good-bye” to someone.
That night, I realized that you truly never know when a “good-bye” is your last.