There are moments when I feel like we are making progress. Fleeting, whispy seconds when our words are sweet and promise floats between us. It dissipates rather quickly and the familiar stench of distrust returns.
You have been unwell, but didn't want me involved. Another reminder of my place in your life. Always the outsider looking in. Peering through a lock, searching for the entrance to your heart.
Failure is bitter to swallow.
I prayed you would be okay, that the doctors would figure out what was wrong. I prayed you weren't pregnant, that your appendix was healthy, that cancer would never be mentioned. I was relieved to hear that you are going to be fine.
What if your illness had been more serious? Would you have wanted me then?
Stupid, isn't it? My desperate desire to be needed. It's sick really. I'm disgusted with myself, but I am learning.
Learning to stay away, to forget. I'm a slow learner, but you and your sister remind me constantly to let go.
Let go. Just let go.