Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

Something about the colors and textures of the wild—the smell of summer heat on grass or the first gentle fall of snow—makes me feel peaceful. At ease. Like my brain can slow down and catch its breath.

I can pivot the hell out of any situation. If anyone has experience finding the bright spot in a steaming pile of shit, it’s me.

“I don’t do small talk. I’m autistic. My psychology basically rejects the entire concept of it.”

Like most labels in my life, I’m not sure if the term alcoholic fits, but my relationship to drinking is certainly messy. Whatever I may be—autistic or ADHD or some tangled swirl of both—moving through the world often feels like a sensory assault, and blunting the impact with a bunch of drinks is a lovely temptation.

She opens up like a flower unfurling its petals to the sun.

Grief is a strange beast. It can lie dormant for weeks. Months. You can go through the motions of life and truly convince yourself you’re healed and fine and will actually survive the heartache of loss. And then, like the flip of a switch, it rears its head and snaps its jaws, hungry and ready to devour you whole.

People wake up every day and decide to leave someone behind; decide you’re too much to carry; break promises they swear they’ll keep without a second thought.”

Fuck anything and anyone that made you have to survive instead of live. You deserve a life so peaceful it feels deliciously boring. A life filled with flowers and sunny days and people who show you all the time that you’re valued and worthy. You deserve it all.”

Hope doesn’t have to hurt.

“Her poems spoke softly—as intimately as confessions between lovers—about the terrible, wonderful ache of being in love.”

I miss her. I’ll always miss her. But the missing isn’t killing me like I thought it would. It’s a beautiful ache, a sacred, precious reminder of how much love I hold for her.