It’s usually the little moments I hold onto that make this life worth living so large.
But now, I notice it’s her that points out the snail or the fat bumblebee on our walk.
I’m making eye contact, mostly, but your voice feels far away. “Say that again,” I say, “one more time, sorry.”
And I am SO sorry. I promise I’m trying to be here. To be with what you’re sharing. But it’s like we are talking through glass. I’m lip-reading but I can’t fully grasp what you’re saying.
Then the little misses feel like big missiles of failure. More lines missed. More comebacks come back to me hours later. Staring at a wall or staring down.
Instead of noticing the patterns of the petals on the flowers, I trace the patterns of the ceiling in the dead of night. At first, they feel like ghosts, now they feel like companions.
Breathe. Just sleep. Compassion. Care. More breaths. More hours passed.
Let me cry, let me release. Let me be free.
Failure, I’ll let you be my teacher, but please know you are not my master.
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