The first of two letters has been drafted. My heart in a knot, stemming itself. I cried in my room the other day, listening and afraid, feeling the edges of loss renewed. Loss is very tangible, very material now. My loss is leaving me now. She packs and moves boxes to wait by the door. I write her, salt on my tongue.
Soon I will write the other letter, the inner piece to match the outer one. If neither can give the other closure, perhaps I, in my own process of closure, can. Is that symbolic? The destiny of my blood is glue. The tilt of my life is maintenance and repair. I hold the pieces together, my gaze and hands steady even as a sob breaks forth from my mouth. This is my farewell performance, the ceremony and exit I script for myself.