A little note to a now-great-friend.
4 years ago, you asked if we “maybe wanted to date.”
3 years and 10 months ago, you told me you loved me
9 days ago, we decided to end this extravaganza we call “us”
I don’t know what it is I feel with you right now. I know that I have loved the simple crevice of your left nostril, the way my head fit perfectly between your shoulder blades when I was the “big spoon.” I loved the way your eyes flashed into mine, two green sparks in the night, when we wrapped our arms around each other and our interlocked fingers and palms were stitches in the comfortable quilt of “us” .
But somewhere, as we trudged down the muddy trail of life, we let go of each others hands to explore different paths on our own— not a bad thing, since we could always come back and report the findings of what we had seen. But I think we were so quick to assume that we were headed on the same forever-trail that at a certain point we wandered so far from each other that we ended up on two mountain tops. The gaping distance too encompassing and too wide to be crossed.
And even though we stretched out, open-palmed, and sent carrier pigeons to each other, the birds a bad metaphor for our loving words, sometimes seeing a person from across a canyon is the only way to get the bigger picture.
So I know it hurts right now, the distance seems so empty and so wide that we don’t know if we’ll ever fill it up, or find our way back on the same trail. Or even if we’re supposed to. If maybe we were meant to be on separate mountaintops, reaching for the stars from our own separate spaces of the earth. And that’s hard, because I don’t know about you, but I never felt quite as safe or the trail quite as right as when your legs were wrapped around mine on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
But if I’ve learned anything from my limited explorations it’s at the bottom of the canyon is often a lovely river. That sometimes, the darker path is darker because the trees are growing so thick from the hidden water flowing that it will lead you straight to the waterfall. And when the sun finally gets to shine through those leaves, there is nothing quite like realizing that the contrast of light and dark bouncing on your fingertips really is so simple and so perfect.
So I know it’s hard. And it hurts. And we’re scared.
But while we may be on separate sides of the world, I’ve seen everything from the crevice of your left nostril to your silhouette on top of a mountain, and I know what you can accomplish. Or maybe I don’t because I know that you’re limitless.
And I can now see what it feels like finally cut down some brush on my own, hit the peak and, finally, for the first time in my life, breathe in air that is only mine.
So no matter where the trail leads, I know you’ll choose the right direction. It may not be the same as the one we walked together, and our paths may not cross again for a while, but I think we’re both aware that, like a peanut butter cup, ours were always the happiest of accidents.
Maybe it’s in the struggle to find words, the scratches from the underbrush, the bandaids we’ll wrap around our wounds that we will finally use these things to piece it all together, to dabble in cartography and find our own parts of the map.
So don’t worry, nothing is forever. I’ll be back. And I’ll report my findings soon.