I can cook a decent curry, make babies smile in boring grocery lines, and put up with endless Seinfeld repeats. I’m also generally good at knowing when to stop drinking, hunting down a bargain, and sleeping in.
I am not good at goodbyes. Whether at funerals or airports, I just can’t do it.
They hurt. And I don’t like hurting.
It’s an end. And I don’t like endings.
I want more. I want possibilities, chances, and just-maybe’s. I want the promise of a see-you-later.
I really do. I want to see you, later.
Oh I can fluff it up, focus on the good times. Celebrate and appreciate all I’ve learned and all I’ve become. Yes- cheers to the lessons, cheers to the journey, cheers to you and cheers to me. We can dress it up and dance with the goodbyes into the night- pretending you’ll call tomorrow to say what fun, let’s do it all again. But there is no tomorrow and there is no again. We all know goodbyes are just down-right badbyes. They have no rhythm, they’re clumsy, step on your toes, and hurt. They’re lousy dance partners who never call you back.
Denial will only take me so far. It walks me to my door and kisses me apologetically on the check knowing it can only ever buy me time. But time is up and denial creeps off into the darkness leaving me to face my goodbyes. And like a teenager after curfew I sneak in hoping not to make eye contact with the goodbyes waiting for me to arrive. I want to run right past them to my room, throw myself on my bed and sob into my pillow crying desperately how nobody really understands. I want to cry all night about life being unfair, about dreams cut short, and sore feet. I want to cry about songs not lasting, empty kisses, and growing up and moving on. I want to cry because it hurts.
I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to do it without breaking into small pieces, shattering before you and cutting us both on the sharp edges.
I’ll cook you a curry- just don’t make me say goodbye.