Hold that posture. The breath will come. I already know that no combination of words will ever do this one the Justice it deserves. You could call it a deep admiration. You could call it a soulful appreciation. In an ideal world these descriptors would suffice and I wouldn’t miss you at a cellular level.
Familial love. I only want you to be happy. This is a lie I repeat to myself to prevent the whole-body body-ache of divergent decisions from running the show as I do all the things I’m supposed to with tearful oxidation and vanity. I didn’t know you were missing until I found you. I rarely even know it explicitly. It follows me around all day like a lost child or that aging inability to recall the last item on your to-do list for weeks.
The self-limitation of a mantra of responsibility—Don’t ask. Don’t want. Don’t need. And if you do, don’t say anything about it. It isn’t proper. It isn’t a becoming component of adulthood. She has things. You have things. You could go up the hill everyday and knock on the door but what would they think?
“When I was walking up the stairs,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish, I wish he’d go away.”
I do. And I don’t know how, but I will. Until then, I will take this isolated moment to say it but once—help me. When you are ready, help. Reach. Please. Because I will grab and never let go … but I need your permission first.