Wish You Weren't Here

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

Sure, you hug and kiss and whatnot, but real intimacy is complete comfort. It’s wrapping yourself in your partner like a cocoon and facing the rest of the world together.”

“I’ve existed for much, much longer than that.” “Existing,” I tell him, “is not the same thing as living.”

Empathy is human. Understanding how others feel is human. But caring about what others feel—” I pause, turning my body to face his, our hands still clasped loosely together in between. “Caring is humane. There’s a difference. It’s not enough to understand how other people feel. You have to care. And when it’s possible—when it’s safe—that care should lead to action.

And can we ever really leave behind the things we’ve done? Because no matter how sorry we might feel for doing something horrible, it’s still happened—and most horrible actions have consequences that can’t be undone with regret. What about those things? What happens to them? Do they just rattle around in our souls, making noise, keeping us awake, long after our knees have grown bloody from kneeling in sorrow? Maybe at some point we simply have to stand up, bloody knees and all, and move forward anyway—step after step after step with our rattling souls, until time dulls the painful edges like glass tumbled smooth in the ocean.

And what does normal mean, anyway? I have lots of different kinds of normal. I have anxious normal and grumpy normal and happy normal and tired normal. Aren’t we all multifaceted, prisms that shine different colors depending on where the light hits?

I’ve asked myself what I really want, and who I want, and where I want to be. And part of that question involves looking at what I already have and where I already am.

There’s magic in returning, isn’t there? A certain kind of magic in stepping into the tracks you once made, seeing how you’ve outgrown them, discovering how far you’ve come.

“I’m allowed to be brave in little ways instead of saving the world all the time!”

And finally, the crowning achievement of my realization: “I”—I stomp my foot—“am allowed”—another foot stomp, because I can’t help it—“to be boring!” They cheer, and I love them for it.

I miss him. I want him to return. But I’m not waiting.

But don’t let go of today in hoping for tomorrow.” I think of Flossie, upstairs, asleep, snoring loudly enough to rattle the foundations. “Today is important too.”

I want you to be happy always; my heart breaks when yours does. I don’t want to live without you. You’re frequently obnoxious, and somehow I want to be around you anyway. I find you the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. What is that if not love?