sweetest pain

 Time is a fickle thing. When you are a child the summers stretch out in an endless search for mischief or a willing playmate and ice cold watermelon. It was only as I grew older that I realized those long lazy days were like dandelion seeds, here one minute and then scattered at the whim of a sudden breeze.

 It is such a fragile thing.  A rose bud, with its delicate fragrant petals, can be tucked away between the pages of a book.  I can close my eyes and revisit a special time or place but it isn’t the same. Like that rose, the beauty is there but the intense sharpness of sight and sound are missing. In just a short time the velvety petals lose the oil that causes the lovely fragrance.  Since the mind works in the soft pastel shades of watercolor most of the unpleasantness is washed away and even the pain is dulled a bit.

The sharp edges are worn away so that I can move forward.  But there is a place deep down inside that holds all of the painfully jagged and achingly bittersweet pieces that time tried to rip from my fingertips. I keep them safely tucked away in the hope that maybe they will be forgotten by everyone, everyone but me. These are mine. These slivers of what used to be cut with surgical precision and yet I still hold them close.

That hiding place is filled with nothing but "missing you", like a collage of black and white photographs scattered across the floor. I am helpless against the temptation to reach out and trace the edges coated with the sticky warmth of my blood and tears that can never wash away the memory.  Merely avoiding the pain is not an option and I wouldn’t if I could. I greedily embrace it.

I promised I would be here and I haven’t moved. I miss you. You took the sweetness and warmth with you. If clutching at these pieces of what used to be brings you back, even if only for a moment, know that I will embrace the sting with only one regret, that you aren’t here to kiss away the pain.