My fingers hover above my worn black keys.
This is it, I think to myself. This is when I tell her. It’s not a new thought—I think it every time I go to talk to you.
But my fingers don’t move, because I can’t think of just how to tell you.
Most things sound too dramatic. Most things aren’t enough. Saying you saved my life is warped and untrue. Saying that you’ve had a positive effect on my life plays down the truth of it.
And how am I supposed to say just how sad I really was?
There were oceans of sadness, miles of it, drowning my heart in my chest and the only constant thing in my head was the steady drone of rain.
But when I went to see you—when I went to see you—
You proved to me life doesn’t have to be endless floundering in soggy periwinkle tulle, that you can’t choose what’s in your life all the time but you can choose what to focus on, that you can do your best with what’s in front of you and decorate your life as you will.
You didn’t keep me from nooses or razor blades or carbon monoxide or aspirin overdose but you did help me realize how much light was in the air between me and the window.
I laughed more than I had been, smiled more. Spoiled myself more, too, and breathed more freely.
You showed me what peace looks like and how to pursue it. You showed me responsibility, and took all the fear out of it.
To put it very frankly, you showed me that life doesn’t have to be so overwhelming and I needed that.
But I don’t know how to effectively communicate just how vast and overwhelming and terrible my sadness had been that past year and how significantly you helped tear down all the blankets on the windows, even if all you thought you were doing was normal, everyday stuff.
So I let my fingers fall and I ask you how you are, and tell you that I love you, and I hope those three little pink hearts I send you before I log off accurately convey how much you mean to me.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I’ll tell her.
(you’re not my everything
but you helped me see what matters
and what I should let go)