The Fourth Of July: The Fourth Of July

The Fourth of July

Goodbyes are hard.
They can begin with a smile and end in a frown—begin with a frown and end with a smile. They can end with a promise of a beginning or beginning of an end.
Either way, that moment in between goodbye and hello hurt in a way, unlike any hurt I’ve ever experienced, certainly not one able to be conveyed in mere words. But, if you don’t know if there’s going to be a hello, the pain is like falling and falling and falling, feeling your stomach flip and turn as you try to stay upright, trying to find the best way to land, already knowing there is no easy way to fall and not get hurt.
And, that’s what I did for you. I fell, and I’m still falling.
As though we were in a fairy-tale book, the first hello was the last.

I remember and sit down with my back to the door and wait, wait, and wait until the night is done, and, maybe for once, I can listen to the fireworks without the jolt of my heart, but as always, I still wait.
And, still, I miss the sound of your voice, soothing me to sleep on this night, reminding me where I am, reminding me I’m home, reminding me you’re right next to me, holding my hand and my heart so delicately in yours.
This Fourth of July would be no different, this I knew, and yet, as I sat there listening to the boom of celebration, I tried to remember your voice, and, as if the wind were your whisper, I strained to make out the sounds, and I muffled my tears with a glass of amber liquid—waiting for your goodbye to sting less, for the hole it burned in my heart to heal, for your goodbye to become a hello.
But, here I sit, yes, in the same bar, on the same barstool, with the same drink, waiting for you to come back to me, ignoring those words that people feed me, telling me you won’t come back, telling me you’re gone for good—that this, the mess I’ve made of my life, is no life at all.
And, I agree.
And, yet, here I sit, remembering the moment you said your last