Response to "My Name"

That Is Leaving

You asked me to write you a letter about how I felt when I dropped you off that day. When I left you there by the bridge with your bags and your dog and my last ten dollars. You want to know what it was like, and how could I have, and all that. You want to know what it would be like, for any person, to leave you there.
It's the moment you drift between awake and asleep. Feels like falling backwards and you lose your breath. Maybe you clench your teeth. One hard click and you're out.
That is leaving.
Or maybe that's one part of it.
Maybe it's spring and you've planted a garden. You're so excited; you have snap peas, tomatoes, cilantro. But you forgot to clip the cilantro and it grew too much. And you were growing organic and didn't know what to do when the aphids came. And then you went on vacation, and by late June everything was dried sticks and wilted leaves.
That is leaving.
At least part of it.
It's also being six and packing all your dolls and some clothes into your pink suitcase and sneaking out your bedroom window. Running fast and hiding under the slide at the park near your house until your dad finds you, pink eyes and tear stained cheeks.
That is leaving.
And it's ordering a Jameson with a beer back. Getting drunk and yelling at a person you love. Remembering the next morning. Avoiding their eyes.
That is also leaving.
And also, I hope you made it over to Scott's house okay, and that you don't hate me too much.