how to let go

I’ve started this story a dozen times. Each time losing my way in setting the scene. Never getting it where it needs to be. Mentioning the light (it was navy blue) mentioning the sounds (just wind and cars) mentioning how I was sitting (in a way that made me feel very small) have let me down. My old couch, a curious cat and my hands wanting to hold his, but holding each other instead. It doesn’t get me there. What if I tell you he opened a beer with the base of a fork? What if I tell you I think that’s sexy? It’s still not right.

Sitting on my old couch in the 9pm navy blue light of summer. In the near quiet. We were talking.

See?

That’s not it.

We were hanging on every word.

No.

We were.

Maybe.

I had given him a book to read. Stumbling on Happiness. It’s one of those socio-philosophical-pop culture books that slices and dices together a picture of how we are. We as in humans. Are as in our often talked about condition. One part. Early on. Making the point that it’s our frontal lobe that is responsible for all of our future plans the author interviews a man who lost his. Tragic accident. Instant science experiment. This man said when he thinks into the future all he sees is a white room. All he sees is nothing. Like me thinking about really hard math. Or you maybe thinking about the endlessness of space. You open the door and there is nothing to see.

“It’s like that.” he said. We were talking about falling in love. “I open the door and all that’s there is a white room.”

“Does it have furniture in it?”

“No.”

“Are there windows?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Do they look out to grass and sky or just to more whiteness.”

“Just to more whiteness.”

When he said that, when I heard it, my entire response was seen in my open palm on the pillow between us. Sending him wishes of sky and grass. Of furniture and cans of paint. Just like 20 minutes before when he tried to fix me. With his hand in my hair and tilted head look into my wet eyes.

On an old 1950s couch. Navy blue light. It’s summer. It’s 9pm. She is sitting in a way that makes her seem small. There are pillows between them. They are not holding hands.

Man: “I hate that you beat yourself up for that.”

He puts his hand in her hair. A car drives by. She is glassy eyed and tired.

Woman: “I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t.”