It occurs to me
I could not count
how many times I have sat in this spot
anxiously awaiting your arrival.
[You were late then, too.]
This is different
from anything I've done before.
This is my final Farewell.

We used to laugh
about how we met in middle school
-- a story to tell the grandkids, perhaps --
just a couple of band geeks
with a few cans of soda, Star Wars,
and some video games.

But you are here to deliver
boxes of my things
you didn't mean to take:
a few keys, my jumper cables,
and some video games.
[I return your tie, the mail,
and that guitar we never learned
to play.]

I get to tell you that I hate you,
and do not want to see you, hear from you,
or talk to you.
I say it evenly, quietly,
through soft tears blurring my eyes.

I want you to know
it didn't have to be this way
-- angry and petty and cowardly --
but you didn't think it through.
[You never do.]

I say that I wish you
success, dreams,
and a chance to do all the things
that make
someone else happy.

We decide to hug,
trying not to walk away enemies,
and I whisper,
"Take care of yourself."
You, too.
"Oh, but I'm not worried about me, love.
I know how to."

You are shaking your head
as I close the door.

It wasn't bitter, love.
You don't realize, yet,
how hard it will be to stop caring.

11/25/2013

Author's Note: This was written very much in that moment. It's raw, but I couldn't change that, even now. Title is from the Polish idiom, "Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy" -- literally, "Not my circus, not my monkey," figuratively, "not my problem."

Posted on 04/22/2014
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell