This

...is what Tavish colored on their walkway yesterday afternoon, and, now, it is completely washed away as if it did not exist. Today, as I was driving home from work, I thought about Carrie. Writing Carrie.  Asking her to meet with me so that I could ask: Why didn't you ever voice your serious concerns if you had been feeling them for a year?  Why didn't you ever seek a counselor's name after I had given you the go ahead?  Why did you ask for a room, but then never do anything with it? Paint it?  Rearrange it?  Bring over your furniture?  Why did you not tell the truth when it happened, as you always said you would?  Why did you surprise me, when you vowed nothing would ever come as a surprise?  How many people knew you were leaving me before I did? 


I know those questions all seem like accusations, and they would have been had I asked them three years ago, or even two.  But now, they are just questions.  Genuine questions I have. 


Because I am not privy to her -- because I do not have access to her -- what do I do with these questions?  They do not wash away.  They do not seem to seep into the soil of my different soul.  They are as vibrant, though differently anchored, than they were all of those years ago.

Is that the way it is with this kind of thing?  And why does it have to be so?  I am not afraid anymore.  No question would ever hurt me.  No inquiry would shake my core.  Carrie could say anything to me and I would own what I need to own.  The truth has almost actually set me free.

Just after she left, when Carrie and I spoke one last time, she said that her leaving had helped me become me.  I want to tell her, no, it did not.  My reaction to her leaving -- my active purposeful healing--  helped me become me.  She was a plot piece, a secondary character in the epiphany. 

But still, even so, and yet, she is the only one who can answer the questions that sit -- so damn bright yellow and green  -- in me.  I wish that were not true, anymore.  I somehow feel weaker because of it.  Apologetic.  Embarrassed.  But it's the truth.  And a small certain corner of me remains tied to it.  Hitched to this post, yanking, yanking, for it all to disappear.