Sometimes life takes us for a spin. Or two, or three.
A memory came back to me recently. I am at the marina. I am four or five years old. And my friend has a kite. We watch it soar up into the sky and float above us. I decide I want to hold the wooden spool it’s attached to. I want to be the one flying the kite, to know what it feels like. And as soon as I take it, as soon as I have a hold on it for a single beat, it is pulled out of my hands. And the spool drifts up and away. And we all scramble after it trying to catch it. But it’s too late. The kite flies away. Everyone yells, I know it isn’t truly my fault. The kite flies farther and farther away, unstoppable.
I wanted so much to make sense of it all. I wanted to make sense of the way that life sometimes hands us something so beautiful, so perfect, only to take it away. I wanted to know that you were supposed to belong to me, and that you eventually would, forever. Are we here just to learn lessons and then die, unhappy and wishing we could have done something differently? Wishing we could have changed the way things happened. If only I hadn’t said that scary thing. If only I’d been braver, or quieter, or louder, or more fun. What would have happened then?
I have spent a lot of my lifetime trying to analyze myself, to understand the way that I’m perceived, to fix it so that no one can ever say a bad thing. Think a bad thing. Think of me as anything other than beautiful and interesting and delightful and unique.
But everything is a mirror, and often people don’t like themselves.
I am certain that two pure souls can do nothing but love each other.
This time, I’m not heartbroken. I feel whole, and content. I don’t feel, this time, like I lost. I don’t want to go back and do it over in the way that, reverse engineered, will make you stay. And while I wish you could sit next to me in my strength, could sit comfortably in my arms or holding my hand, I know you can’t. And I know you won’t. Maybe ever. And I am at peace.