The hits arrive, usually on weekends. They come in all shapes and sizes and can feel anywhere from a faint scratch to what I have to imagine a sledgehammer to the ribcage would feel like. They come when I don’t want them to. Or, they come when you know they will and every one will be more heart wrenching as the the one before it. And they keep arriving at speeds you cannot halt.

Nothing could really prepare me for the day she looked at me and said, “Y tu quien eres?”. But just like a lot of the things in our lives, a good portion of the time we aren’t prepared for their arrival and we just have to learn; kind of like those parents that throw their children into the pool in an effort to teach them, sink or swim baby, sink or swim. Then the day came and it destroyed me in ways that I still can’t truly put into words. I wish I could but then that would mean you could possibly feel what’s inside me and fuck, this is a feeling I don’t wish on my worst enemy. Not that I have any I’m aware of, but you know what I mean.

The other day I was reminded of a moment where I wasn’t the best person to her. I thought about it and I am so far removed from who that person used to be and now I am in this position that no matter how much I have grown, no matter how much remorse I have for things I have said and done, there is no taking that back anymore. I can’t say I am sorry and have it heard or understood. I try not to carry a lot of regret up in here, but sometimes you can’t help it or yourself. We’re human after all. I’m dealing with the motions of watching her from afar, slowly become more and more less of who she was and who I remembered her to be. Sometimes you get quick flash of radiance, a nod, a twinkle in the eye, a reminder or a laugh… but for the most part, a good portion of who she was has left already. It’s a slow and painful walk to the docks where the ship of mortality will eventually set sail.

We take the slow walk besides her, even from afar and hope that the loss of dignity and cognizance stays at a minimum. I’ve seen what’s more than likely coming and it isn’t pretty. But fuck man, it is so incredibly difficult to manage the anger that arrives when you ask yourself “why her?”. You see and hear of so many people living to ripe old ages and they were for all intents and purposes, despicable human beings… and then you have someone like her, who was just a kind and gentle soul, get dealt with the most atrocious of hands. You see people squander their health, their relationships and connections with the ones they love, you see people who are an absolute waste of oxygen and you can’t help but want to get angry or punch something. Why. Her. I’ve never felt the need for physical aggression mind you, so I take my pain and sadness to my my blades and paper, or mold it into words in hopes I can turn it into something constructive. This is the most heaviest of cinder blocks on my ankles and I don’t want to be angry. Or afraid of the possibility that one day this could be me.

And another round arrived, a little sadder than the one before it. I sat in it and allowed myself to feel what I needed to feel. I’ve been doing more of that these days. I said what I could bring myself say, holding on to what little I could to make me feel comforted and safe. The rest goes here.

There is no happy ending here.

Water and salt all over again.

 

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