rock baby rock (original) (raw)

When she opened the door, I could hardly believe the look on her face: she was smiling, wide.

She didn't invite me inside, she didn't cry on my shoulder, she didn't even comment on the hoodie I wore, just like old times, just for her. She just slipped her arms under mine and wrapped them tight around my torso, and the feeling of it was familiar--the warmth of her body, the curve of her cheek pressed into the worn blue fabric--but nothing else about the meeting was.

She stepped back, holding my hands in hers, holding me at arm's length, and she smiled, and she said, "I just want you to know that I don't think I'll be needing you anymore."

I didn't believe it then and I still don't now, and I don't think she quite believes it, either, or at least she doesn't believe that this is a forever kind of thing. She'll need me again some day, I'm sure of it.

Just not for a while.

When she does need me again, I'll be there. But for now, I know she'll be safe with the ones by whom I've been replaced. I hugged her for the last time in a long time, and she waved goodbye as I started down the driveway.

The bruises have healed, the spiders have cleared away, and the camouflage cargos have been pushed to the back of the closet because they no longer fit.

She's not so little, anymore.

And I'll miss the person she's become.

I keep my eyes on the road ahead of me, and start the long walk home.