Sunday, April 11, 2010

Residue (72/90)

My niece and nephew, the little people, as I like to call them, walked in after I’d been home only a few minutes tonight after spending the afternoon out and about with their PaPa. They saw Alice In Wonderland at the theater, which the 6-year-old was less than impressed by and the 13-year-old said was "a little scary".

They're less and less little every time I see them now.

The 6-year-old's mouth is half-full of holes and half-full of big people teeth and there’s a constant stream of new words added to his vocabulary. Some I like and some send me on a rant. The 13-year-old is tall and beautiful with a charm that is loved by all she meets. She's got a cell phone now and best friends that just happen to be boys. 

Despite my horror at how quickly they're growing, watching them become is fascinating. 

I mistakenly allowed my mind wander last night to back to an awful season in my life of which the residue is still dripping through me.

All my hope, love and identity were wrapped up in another person. A person that eventually broke me in a way that I didn't know was possible, because I couldn't bring myself to let go.

To untangle myself and move forward unfettered.

I spent what must have been hours lost in several emails. None offered apologies instead only countless thank -yous for my kindness and support. Words that soured my stomach because of the context that forced them, confirming that my love was—is still at times— too much and easily taken advantage of.

I’m finding myself open again in a way that I don’t think I’m ready to be. 

Several times in the past few months I’ve asked myself what it is that I’m doing. But it’s too late now, I’m moving through this pain that I put off facing for as long as possible.

And the residue must drip until it is gone.

My mind wanders back too often to that time and I swear that there are times that I smell it, I see it  and I hear it. And I’m startled by this stain on my memory, so connected to my senses making that time in my life inescapable.

Yet and still, I am open. Loving too quickly and severely, just as I did before.

And I am scared. Worried that I’ll find myself entangled again, unwilling to let go and move forward as will be necessary over and over again, I presume.

If I will learn to do it. Which I must, so as to preserve the growing. The becoming. 


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