The Beauty of Letting Go by Helen Dring (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) “This is it.” Ginny stops suddenly and exhales against the cold of the air. She eases herself down onto the grass, and I have little choice but to do the same. This is how things have always been between us: Ginny says; I follow. I lace one of my legs under hers as I sit down and she smiles at me, leaning her head against my chest so that I can smell the droplets of frost that have gathered on her hair. It was a strange choice of morning for a walk, one of those days when the ground seemed sprinkled with a coating of glitter that could wipe your feet from underneath you in seconds. I didn't want to come. I didn't want her to leave the house yet. I wanted to curl up on our half-dead couch and read old love songs to each other. Like I said, I always seem to follow her. I run my fingers gently through her hair, and she glares at me. I move, instead letting my fingers work softly at the knots in her shoulders that I can feel even through layers of sweaters and coats. I catch sight of the loose strands of hair caught on my fingers and say nothing. For now, it is only a few strands, a clump here and there. She puts her own hand up to it as if to count. I’m sure she has taken stock of every wavy strand still on her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, moving my hand from her shoulder and taking it in hers, forcing me into a closer embrace. “Shhh, it’s okay,” I murmur back, and she eases me backwards so that we are lying on the cold, damp ground, her body held aloft by mine. “You didn’t hear me, did you?” She quizzes. “I said, this is it.” “I know.” I have spent the last two months trying to distract her from this conversation, but now, with her green eyes fixed on me, I know that this will end up just one more thing that I do without questioning. “Hayley,” she leans in close, her forehead pressing against mine so that her words hit my skin before I hear them, “please.” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “I know. But what if we never talk about it because you don’t want to and then...” “It’s too late.” “It’s too late.” She sighs. “I’m sorry. You know, sometimes, I wish all this was the other way around.” “Don’t...” “No, I do, really.” I lift myself up, my now damp jacket clinging to my back, and cup her face with my only free hand. I pull her in lightly so that I can kiss her, and inside the kiss, I sigh. “So, this is it, huh?” “It’s just—It’s perfect, don’t you think?” I look out across the view, at the hills that seem to roll away endlessly, at the heather that, even though it is covered with frost, somehow is still growing. I have to agree that she’s right. “I guess it is. Look at that.” I point to the crop of heather I have been studying and she smiles. “See, you get it.” “I get it.” I pull her in close, tucking her head under my chin, and together we look out at the place she has chosen. With her head below me, I can afford to let my tears flow down my cheeks. The tears feel warm against my skin, and I can almost feel myself letting go of her. I didn’t want to come on this trip. I didn’t want anything to do with this search she had her heart set on. But I can never refuse her anything, not even this. “You’ll come and visit?” She lifts her head to me, and her voice sounds lighter than before. “You won’t be here.” “I will be when you visit.”
By the time I get to the top of the hill, I am exhausted. The sun hits my back mercilessly, and I can feel rivulets of sweat gathering near my spine. I stop and try to catch my breath, slumping down onto the ground as I do so. In the last six months, I seem to have gotten used to doing things on my own, to being on my own. I lie down and the grass prickles against my dripping back. I look up at the blue sky and remember how I have seen it change in the time I have been coming here. I remember how wild the wind can be up here, how, on the day I let Ginny go, the particles of her seemed to take off and dance along the crests of the breeze, and how I felt like running after them and catching each single grain, in a hope of putting her back together again. I have learned not to wonder about where she landed, just to keep hold of the pieces of her I got to keep. The summer doesn’t make it any easier. I lie under the heat, the only person in probably a twenty-mile radius, and let the sun’s rays tattoo my skin, my eyelids, as I close my eyes and whisper secrets to the faint semblance of the breeze.
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