I follow him out of the office because there is nothing else to do
I am not done with my work, but the sense of panic at being left behind is too overwhelming
My mind does not remember being left
I can’t find a single memory
Not what I was wearing when I saw him last
Or the note my sister left on the table
Where I stayed after my mother attempted suicide
But I feel it in my body, in my lungs, my throat
These are my intimates, my familiars, carved into my bones;
Tightness around my heart, stillness in my veins, silence of my breath
I suppose I could find the answers to those questions
Brutalized in conversation with my mentally ill mother
Judged by my sister
Talked at by a stranger-father
I remember the feeling of alone, and it isn’t so bad if I stayed still
Closed is my preference When I choose it.
I do remember the 3 of them gone, I remember the music I’d sing to allow myself to feel.
“After 13 years, you still haven’t let me in”
The words pierce my shell, in the same instant there are tears in my eyes.
How can I be so positive, so sure he’s going to leave, that I won’t take the risk to let him in?
It’s not my choice. It’s not my mind, memory, or logic that prevents it.
It’s my body. That visceral, reflex that closes me down, closes him out. Steels me against the leaving.
I have control over being alone. I have no control over being left.
The reality is I’d rather have no more life to live
than to have to feel this again.
The reality is, I am alive, and I’ve been feeling it all along.