After work, I run on the elliptical, shower, and change into the tiniest pair of shorts I own, my most low-cut, form-fitting tank top, and flip-flops. I would wear nothing if I could, but the temperature is already not quite warm enough for this outfit, and I plan on going out in public, after all. I wait until I figure there's only an hour of sunlight left. Then I head out the door, towards the path that is as much a part of our relationship as our kisses, laughter, and tears.
As I walk towards the river, I think of the many ways I have grieved for you and how fitting it is to be out in nature, in the elements. I glance at the river gently sliding beneath the trees, its path winding, long, and full of history, and am grateful for all the crying I have done.
The wind rushes up my bare arms, skims my shoulders and pushes through my hair, washing me. The wind shivers the reeds along the riverbank; they shimmer a song to remind me there is music everywhere, even without you. I think of the keyboard back in my apartment, the one I bought mostly to hear you play, how the book in the music rest is still open to Reverie, how beautiful you were, your fingers like butterflies on the keys.
I pass a dusty berm where weeks ago the garter snakes peeking out from their holes warned me that change was coming. I feel my heart swell and wonder how anyone could be frightened of such a benign creature, but I think you were scared of me, too, and I never meant you any harm.
The trees flanking my sides feel extra protective tonight, their shadows blanketing my shoulders. The trees guide me to the bridge where we last spoke. I walk to the spot where I felt my heart breaking, gaze out at the same marshy glade where swallows dip for gnats in a world gilded with the sun's sinking. The bridge is empty, the disc golfers and couples laughing with their dogs far away. It is quiet, and I find myself hearing your voice, hearing you tell me all the reasons you didn't want to be with me, hearing you say you were sorry.
As tears fill my eyes, I take a deep breath and your voice fills my lungs. I let my grief ramp up to a 10 and pinpoint the center of this particular pain. "Even though I am sad I could not save our relationship," I whisper, "I deeply and completely accept myself." Only the river below me hears.
The other day, a friend taught me the Tapping method for releasing grief. It's not something I ever would have to come to on my own, but it helped last night when I was crying over you, so I've decided to embrace it.
I tap the outer part of my hand, the ridge rising up to my pinkie. "Even though I am sad I could not save our relationship, I deeply and completely accept myself." I say the words again, louder, so that the birds swooping overhead can hear. My words mix with the wind in the reeds as tears moisten my lashes. I tap the top of my head. "Let it go," I say. I tap the space between my eyebrows, my temple, the bone beneath my eye, the space below my collarbone. Let it go, let it go. It's safe to let it go. Let her go. I press the soft point at the top of my wrist, breath in deeply, the way I used to hold my breath when you looked at me, when you laced your fingers in mine, release. "Peace," I say, nodding at the trees waving overhead.
I do this again and again, taking my grief from a 10 to an 8, to a 6, to a 4. To a 4. To a 4. (I get stuck for a little bit.) "Even though I am sad I could not save our relationship," I breathe, gazing at the sun, now a fractured sparkle behind the trees, "I deeply and completely accept myself." I whisper, tap, and breathe until the first crickets pick up their bows, until my tears are as distant as the sun.
Then I turn and walk across the bridge towards home. But before I can get more than a few steps off the bridge, I think of the fern you gave me, the one I couldn't bear to raise without you so I planted her along this path. It has not rained in over a week, and the ground is hard and dusty. I make a quick detour, wondering if she is still alive. I search amongst the family of ferns where I placed her and finally spot her, the tiniest frill, still green. Suddenly, I am on my knees, plant cupped in my hands like a fledgling fallen from the nest. Having no water with me, I spit in the dry dirt before setting her down and tapping the earth into place.
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