they say

that letting go is a matter of time and distance. What I know of it is something else: a series of tiny deaths the elimination of a thousand futures and possibilities and dreams.

It is not just the first time you wake by yourself on a warm Sunday morning in the bed where he used to touch you, drink the coffee you got together, alone, in long silence before you finally throw out the toothbrush he'll never use again, put away the pictures where you look so happy it hurts to see. That is a process of archival. The removal of old artifacts you will either place in the museum of your relationship or donate to the dumpster.

To let go is to stand on the train that once delivered you straight to him and ride it to a lonely destination. The jokes and teasing made for just that one person, spoken aloud to no one. Waiting in line at the cafe while his favorite drink jumps off the board (a flavor that made you gag, even then) and going home with a different order. Of experiencing new joys and places and people, so deep and sweet you want to run to the phone and tell him all about it before remembering the line disconnected a long time ago. It is to breathe through every wave that hits you, even the ones that knock you over. Especially those.

There is no one act of letting go, but the practice of doing it again and again, day by day, until the aches subside. It is a task of vigilance, this process of killing these little feelings each time they sprout beneath your ribcage.

Nothing can truly bloom in the space he occupied. Letting go is depriving those persistent growths that twist free of water, air, and light. It is ripping out the pieces of him like weeds, even as your skin tears and bleeds

for as long as it takes

until the day your heart is ready to grow something new.