You are the futility of my words
And the laboured breath of my
Ragged silence; you are half
A paragraph of a
Letter I wrote,
She rocks back and forth in a stationary wooden chair, teetering on the brink of a fall. Her pen is poised on a bleached piece of thick paper, an ink drop quivering, ready to blot out the word she’s just written on it: Sorry.
What does one write after an apology? An explanation, perhaps, but explanations are the most futile bits of literature that ever existed. To those that need it, an explanation will never be enough; to those that don’t, it is superfluous.
She hates using that word, the one she has just traced out on that overly white sheet. It’s been said too many times, and means too little. She has said it to people who’ve lost a parent, those she bumped accidentally in a queue, even a flower vase she once knocked over. Somehow it seems too puny to say to a man she loves as much as it is possible to love another person. Because she is about to do something she hates even more than saying sorry- she is going to lie. She is going to look him in the eye. Well, as much as one can look through a letter, and she is going to tell him, Sorry, I was wrong. Sorry, I can’t love you anymore. Sorry, I need to go. And sorry, I’ll never come back.
She gets up from the chair, turns up the speakers. Strands of music emanate, settling into a familiar rhythm, like the bus conductor on your daily commute, who knows exactly where you want to go. The song, it takes her places she doesn’t really want to go. The places that have been left hastily, before the mess could be tidied up. There’s a lot of dirty laundry. Not all of it is hers. His voice resonates in her mind, you don’t always have to do everything alone.
Somehow she’s never really believed him; in this moment, she desperately wants to. She picks up the pen again, after shaking off the drop of ink elsewhere.
Sorry, she writes, let’s give this another shot.
The forty-second draft lands up in the bin along with its predecessors.