Rumination

I never made that call.

One day turned into one week.  Then, a month passed.

As soon as I recognized my own foolishness, it had been months. 

I had a dream that my father got down on one knee so he could speak to seven year old me at eye level.  Then he sternly said, "Son, pride makes cowards out of men."  Then, he left my mom.  And me.  I'm just a boy.  Way too young to hate, I thought.  But I do and did. 

I woke up in a cold sweat.  Started thinking about defense mechanisms we all have.  Like humor.  Or pride. Or isolation.  Grabbed my phone; prepared to make that call.  But it was 2:00 a.m. and God knows she would just be angry.  Angrier, I mean.  So, I said tomorrow.

Months pass.  Then years. 

I admit, every time, my phone rings or I get a text, I nervously hope it's her while at the same time, I am scared it's her and hope it's not.  I suppose uncomfortable confrontation isn't my thing. 

But I miss her. 

She consumes my every thought.  No matter how hard I try to forget, I can't.  I sleep more just to avoid thinking of her but then she invades my dreams.   And for some reason, my dad shows up.  And it becomes this nocturnal battle in my head between love and hate.  And love wins everytime but he keeps returning. 

I still won't make that call.

She deserves better. 

I fast forward a few years.  Still thinking of her.  Wondering who the lucky guy is.  Hoping she found peace.  Self preservation now just an after thought.  Wishing nothing but absolute calm and joy for her.  But the thought of another man touching her is torture.  And I still love her more than ever but I, for once, do the unselfish thing.  Let her go.

I never make that call.

I miss her voice.  Her laugh. Her rare but potent affection.  Her angst.  Anger.  Her frustration.  Her disappointment.  Her love. 

Focus on the bad focus on the bad Focus on the bad  focus on the bad, I recite over and over.  And, I can't remember any.  I recall complaining about the bad but the specifics have evaporated into a neurotic need to not feel guilty.  I find myself looking for inspiation from those who have faced greater loss.  Something tangible.   And nothing works.

So, I choose to make the call.  Because life is too short.  And love, real love, is hard to find.  And because pride makes cowards out of men.  And because there are no heroes left.

I almost make that call.

It feels too late.

Point of no return.

And maybe, someday, she will call me and say thank you.  Because she found who I could never be.

Or just maybe, I will call her and find her number has changed.  And I will smile quietly in the loneliness of her absense and think, that's my girl.

And I'll be so proud of her.