I can’t help you with your insecurity, your jealousy, your bitterness, your rage.
Not really. I can try, but that is all. You already carried this baggage when I met you. It was heavy, but you refused to put it down. Like some farmer’s walk that’s measured in years, not yards.
And wanting to help, or trying to help, is (of course) not the same as helping. It never can be.
The weight is all yours. You must help yourself.
Why then to write? What then to do? Cheerleading seems such an empty pursuit. Scattered clapping under an indigo sky.
Unless it is not midnight, or even dusk. Perhaps it could be dawn? Maybe the sky is ready to brighten, and glow. I can always hope.
Maybe you are coming out of it. Emerging. Putting down your burdens, after all these years. Maybe you will walk free.
But then the edge in that flippant remark with her name wordlessly whispers to me: “Not this year.”
I look out the window.