I am usually the last one holding on. My hands wrapped around a rope running along the life of a friendship. But not this time.
Tiny strings being pulled out one by one until what is left can't hold the weight.
It's not a fight.
It's not a move my locker moment.
It's a sunset on a long day. The kind of day you crawl out of the sand to end, wind burned, sun kissed, 2 beers too many, and crawl into a sleeping bag. Wrapped in the smell of sweat and camp smoke. Coffee and grass seeds in your socks.
You regret nothing. The memories warm but the moment over.
Beggars really shouldn't be choosers.
But I could build a house out of the bricks of what I shouldn't be or shouldn't do.
What seemed like a lifetime ago, on a Monday in July, I called my sister. Standing in my kitchen tracing the aluminum frame of windows that no longer exist she said the last words she would ever say to me.
There is a blurb that precedes telemarketer calls. To me it sounds like my sister saying my name. I hold the line in silence until the caller retires their unanswered hellos and disconnect. There is nothing for me to say to people not calling for me.
I don't have room to hold another line that has gone dead. I don't want to strain to pull my name from the matrix. I don't want to have to believe- I want to know.
I feel the summer heat rolling towards me. I hear my defenses dropping as I say things I would never have said before.
It's time to stop answering the calls that aren't being made.