The Years
One. If there was a single, hold-able regret, I would tell you. I would shout it from the rooftops and let it fester until it healed. I would move to mend, to extract the lesson, to let it mold me into the person I want to be. But there isn’t. There’s a million and I can’t grasp a single one long enough to control it. I’m haunted and I fear I always will be.
Two. The amount of days until this same amount will be my wedding anniversary. Two years. Two days. They blend. They move and meld and whisp away until they blur. It’s amazing how much time we lose and spend and wish away. I’ve stopped doing that now, but how much did I lose before I realized what I was doing?
Three. It’s a crowd of sorts, but I like the direction. It’s more than a single and opinionated in duo and it’s how much longer I need to wait until a dream I’ve had for triple this amount of time is accomplished. You’ll see a new me, in only three years. And oh what a ride they will be. You never would have guessed the road I picked to travel.
Four. It’s still us. Not as close, not as easy, not as likable as we once were. But there’s still us times 2. Times 4. We’ve grown larger now, but the horsemen still remain. You would be happy to know we haven’t completely fallen apart, although it’s been hard. For some more than others.
Five. Fingers and toes. All in one piece. I’ve got a plan for this number and they’re big. They’re astronomical. I’m working towards it, every hour, every minute. I’m not as deliberate as I used to be, I know these years can change me. They can change everything. But by that time it’ll be thirteen and that’s a lucky number. I’m using all my digits to push forward to it.
Six. The amount of time I’ve been gone. Home means something different to me now, though our house still means the same. It’s good for me. For all of us. I’ve learned so much more than I thought I would when I struck out, worried but pushing through. I didn’t think I would find a place. I still don’t know if I have, but I like the way the creek crackles down the rocks and how something can feel like mine.
Seven. You’ve been gone. It’s crazy. It’s unthinkable. And at the same time it’s not. I forget, sometimes. I scramble to remember your smile. Your hugs. Your love. And I panic thinking I’ve lost it. Every year I forget a little more, a word in a conversation. The look you gave telling me you were proud. The date you were gone. I try to force the memory. The details. But they’re gone. Then I remember the feelings. The moments. The thoughts. My panic at being left. Your peace at knowing I would be OK. And I feel less worried. Less frantic. Because I remember what matters. What you really left me with, Dad. I miss you, but seven has been better. I understand more now. See more. I’m not who I was, even if I slip sometimes. I’m more. And whenever I’m looking over my shoulder, wondering if I should go back, I remember you and I take another step forward. Seven years and you’re still pushing me. As long as I don’t forget that, I can handle tomorrow. Next week. Twelve months. Or another seven years. One step forward, don’t move back.
