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Saturday, September 05, 2015

how you will feel


How you will feel when the bus leaves without you is a pit in your stomach, a gnawing, a loss that needs grieving, even if the decision was yours, even if you have umpteen things to do that make riding on a bus full of kids to a beach four hours away nonsensical, illogical, inadvisable.

When the beach retreat bus pulls out and makes a right while you in your stay behind car make a left, there will be a deep flash of pain like a girl's first heartbreak, a note unanswered, eyes that won't meet hers, a sudden and complete silence stretching like a yawn as far as she can see.

When you pull into your driveway and look over and see the food page topmost on your clipboard on the passenger seat, the scribble scrabbles of meals you planned and shopped for that your hands won't prepare, your mouth won't eat, you will consider just sitting there, in your car, in your driveway, listening to your hurting heartbeat for a while.

But there's a dog on the other side of the fence, staring at you with a face full of welcome home friend and inside the sound of a boy choking with glee at something on YouTube, laughter pealing like a windchime, tinkling like a bright bell, while your heart tugs and heals, tugs and heals, tugs and heals.
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