“Get rid of him. Send a letter. Never speak to him again.” Male friend one.
“You need to read He’s Just Not That Into You.” Male friend two.
“There are other fish in the sea.” Brother.
“Men are too high maintenance.” Female mentor twenty years older than me.
But but but.
A poem circles in her head. “There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very very good. When she was bad she was horrid.”
We are like the poem. We bring out each other’s small child, two to four years old, who was hidden and traumatized. We laugh like hyenas. We play with words. We compare childhoods, each sometimes terrible, each full of scars. And when we disagree, we are also like four year olds. We want to stomp our feet and sulk. He wins the sulking award though. I worked through an awful lot of it with my sister and much effort, over 40 years. My sister was as smart as me or smarter intellectually. It’s the emotional part that is so hard to heal. Will you or won’t you, will you or won’t you, will you or won’t you, won’t you join the dance?
I don’t think he will.
But, but, but.
The small bird of hope sings happily and says he will, he will, he will…
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: finish.
The photograph is me and my daughter years ago. Her expression is very thoughtful because I think this is the first time she is seated in an adult chair. She is thinking about it. I am not sure who took the photograph.